Secrets
by nikonic
Summary: Everyone has secrets. Eliot and Parker share a few.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This started as an idea and morphed into 3000+ words of what could be an ongoing story. Please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

They keep it a secret through silent agreement. Well, really, they keep numerous things secret from the team. It's not lying, per say, because no one asks the right questions; they just don't offer the information. During the first con, the one orchestrated by Dubenitch, he doesn't try to resist an eye roll when she jumps the gun, diving over the side of the building before the count hits five. He tells Hardison that she's twenty pounds of crazy in a five-pound bag. He doesn't say that she's his crazy thief. When she rushes into the elevator, pulling off her shirt because nudity has never been one of her qualms, he suppresses the urge to smack the hacker solidly in the face for eyeballing the topless blonde.

Secret One: the hitter and the thief have history.

Secret Two: said history isn't exactly in the past. It's more ongoing.

After they finish the job and Hardison emails the plans to Dubenitch, the makeshift team scatters. He isn't at all surprised to find her perched on the desk in his hotel room eating a bowl of cereal. He doesn't ask where she got cereal at this time of night. She smiles at him, her lips quirking skyward around the spoon. In a few steps, the distance between them ceases to exist, and her personal space is invaded. With him, though, she doesn't care; she never has because he has always been different.

"You're crazy." His voice rumbles low in his chest and her shoulders rise with an agreeing shrug. The bowl is forgotten off to the side as his hands trail along the outsides of her thighs. "We need to talk about you stripping in front of people…again."

"You were there."

"I was, but so was he. Damn hacker is lucky he still has all ten fingers in working order. He has a thing for you, Parker."

"Oh, but I'm yours." Her confusion furrows her brow.

"Yeah, you are, darlin'." He kisses her soundly because he can't think of a reason not to. "That doesn't mean that other guys can't see what a catch you are. Just next time, try to keep your clothes on around other people, okay?" She shrugs, not understanding his constant need for her to be clothed in public. Her upbringing didn't exactly instill in her normal social skills or values. Nudity had always been one of those things that she didn't and couldn't grasp.

"When's your next job?" Relaxing into his embrace, she leans into his chest and takes a deep breath, centering herself with his solid presence. His discipline anchors her spontaneity, giving her the stability she subconsciously craves. His gruff attitude and career choice shows the dangerous side to which she is so attracted. She doesn't have any concrete basis for understanding her feelings, but she thinks she is in love with the man hugging her to his chest.

"A friend called in a favor, so it'll be a week or two. I'll try and meet you wherever you are when I'm done." His fingers brush soothingly through her long hair. His lips find her forehead and press against her skin. He smirks against her skin when she leans into his touch. It's a rare moment when they get to slow down and truly savor an unrushed speed. Their chosen careers don't exactly lead to a stable 9-5 day job with dinner on the table by 6:30. They're lucky if the jobs line up in a way that allows them to steal a few moments here or there; even luckier if those moments line up and give them a night or two to themselves. "What about you? What's the next job?"

"Cairo Museum has a new exhibit with all new artifacts opening in four days."

"One of your favorites," he sighs with a fond smile. "We should take a vacation soon. It's been awhile since we've both been in one of the houses at the same time."

Lifting her head from his chest, she nods, a brilliant smile shining in her eyes. "Italy?"

"Ireland?"

"New York?"

"Wyoming?"

"Texas," she states. He agrees wholeheartedly. God, he misses the south. "I can wear my cowboy boots!" Her statement startles a laugh out of him. "We can go dancing, and you can sing."

"I always sing to you, darlin'."

"Yeah, but in Texas, you sound happier when you sing. Plus, you're all country and whatever, so you fit in better in Texas when you're being you. As a grifter, you fit anywhere, but as Eliot, you fit in Texas." He can't argue with her straightforward logic, so he kisses her instead, losing himself in the familiar feel of her body pressing against his and her fingers threading through his long hair.

It's long past sunrise when she finds the strength to lift her head off his chest and check her account for her money. Her body bristles when her statement says she's lacking a couple hundred thousand dollars. Tension radiates from her, and Eliot grumbles something incoherent as he sleepily gropes around the bed for her. By the time his brain catches up to her missing presence, she is half dressed and tugging on her converses.

"The hell, Parker?"

"I want my money!" She throws a shirt on and walks determinedly out of the hotel room.

"Fuck." With a curse and a grumble, he pushes himself out of the bed, throwing on jeans and grabbing a sweatshirt and shoes. He dresses in the elevator next to her and calls Dubenitch once he digs his phone out of his pants.

She nearly yells at him when he tells her to wait outside the warehouse. It's her money, and she wants it. She also wants to take a few swings at Dubenitch while she's at it. Giving her one of his trademark glares, he gives her explicit directions about waiting outside.

Of course, following rules never was something she was good at. She was the person to make her own rules. When she comes barreling in holding a weapon of her own, he isn't entirely surprised. He makes a mental note to talk to her about weapons again. As Nate starts laughing, a worrisome feeling settles in his gut. The two men share a glance before rushing everyone towards the exit of the warehouse before the building explodes magnificently.

Handcuffed to a chair in a damn hospital room, Eliot tries to buffet his raging temper. Dubenitch would pay for this, for all of it, in spades. Parker says something about trust, and he knows she is talking to him. She doesn't want to go to jail. She doesn't want him to kill anyone. She is still pissed about her money, and her anger drips from her tone. He cringes when she empties her stomach; he adds it to the growing list of reasons Dubenitch is going to get his ass kicked.

Secret Three: he protected her long before the team became a team and before it became his job to keep them safe.

Then, Sophie finds a client, and Eliot fights the Butcher of Kiev in the kitchen of a mob boss. The resurrection from his past leaves him a bit shaken, though the team sees nothing but his usual stoic exterior. Parker finds him beating out a punishing rhythm on a punching bag. She waits him out, knowing better than to sneak up on him in this state. When he finally sags against the bag, she approaches, taking his hand and leading him towards the bathroom. Nimbly untying his hand wraps and gently removing his clothes, Parker tries to soothe his soul.

When the sweat and blood is washed away, he finds himself face down on the mattress with her lithe body massaging away the tension in his shoulders, back, and thighs. The bedding muffles the groans that fall from his lips. The noises turned from deep moans of released tension to sighs of relaxation as her fingers worked out the knots and her lips trailed between his shoulder blades. Her weight rests on his backside, as she drags her fingernails through his long hair and over his scalp. He feels boneless.

"Parker," he murmurs. Her name is a sigh, a soft prayer on his lips, his kryptonite. Her knees take her weight and he rolls beneath her, shifting until his back is against the mattress. His hands reach up to thread through her hair, bringing her down to claim her lips. She smiles into the kiss, feeling proud that she brought him back from the demons in his head, however temporarily. She knows tonight will be a night when terrors plague his sleep. Her forearms bracket his head as her lips trail along his jaw. He submits to her pace, accepting the feelings stirring in his chest. He lets her soothe him, take care of him, love him. Later, when he wakes in the middle of the night with a layer of sweat coating his skin, she kisses his brow and reminds him that he is a good man despite his past.

Secret Four: there is a reason he only sleeps 90 minutes a night. On nights, when she sleeps in his bed and curls into his body, he finds the nightmares stay at bay for longer periods of time.

Nate is drunk, and Eliot has half a mind to walk away from the job before it even starts. When the mastermind comes in hung-over and looking like ten shades of hell, that is a sure sign nothing will end well. Then he has the gall to ask how long Parker can hang from a ski lift without a harness, as if that is a normal question to be posed over coffee. Eliot isn't worried about the dangling from a ski lift; he is well aware of the thief's athletic skill. Now that they actually get to be in the same place at the same time on a more consistent basis, they have developed an exercise routine. He teaches her to fight after they work out separately. She managed to hit him once or twice, and as a result, he knows just how deceptively strong she is. What worries him, though, is the slur of the words in the question and the disregard for her safety.

Somehow, the con takes a strange turn, and the team ends up in Miami. He hates Florida, absolutely hates it, and his bad mood seems to intensify with each passing day. It doesn't help Nate is in a perpetual state of intoxication. Then, Parker throws herself out of a second story window; he barely catches her and suppresses the urge to shake her when she says she didn't know he would be there. Sure, she knows how to fall, but still, he is a little more than annoyed that she thinks that's a normal course of action.

When Nate refuses the $500,000 check from the mark, Eliot clenches his fist to quell the first wave of anger. Parker slumps against the car in disbelief. The con continues to go south with the development of state cops, and Eliot wants to walk away. When a drunken mastermind starts making decisions on the fly, he starts putting Parker's life on the line, and that's not okay.

When Nate signs over $100,000 to the mark, Parker reaches Eliot's level of anger. She storms out of the MRI room in a hospital gown, intent on giving the man a piece of her mind. He forcibly carries her out of the hallway because she's one breath from blowing their con. Instead of returning to the MRI room where Hardison is waiting with the cadaver, he carries her into a supply closet off to the side and removes their separate ear buds temporarily.

"That's my money! Mine, Eliot," she seethes, as she pushes against his chest in her anger.

"I know, darlin'. Trust me. I know."

"I don't like this." She sighs, takes a moment to compose herself, and leaves the closet after taking her ear bud.

When they meet back at the Miami Grand Hotel, no one is confident in the team's leadership. Eliot finally voices his opinion about the constant intoxication. "You can drink yourself into a coma as far as I'm concerned. But you're taking me down with you, and then it's my problem."

"You know what you talk to much. You should go skip some rope."

"What? You want me to skip somethin'?" Eliot seethes. "I'll skip your drunk ass of this marble." Sophie steps in and saves Nate a painful punch to the face. Parker wants to punch him too, but Sophie holds her semi-protective stance in front of the drunken mastermind.

Outside, Eliot takes deep, stabilizing breaths, trying to find his center. Parker paces frantically next to him. Hardison is nowhere to be found. Finally, once he has a grasp on his raging emotions, he reaches out and loops Parker into his arms. "Relax, darlin'. I know you're mad. Hell, I'm pissed too, but with the state cops listening in on this mark, we've got to be on top of everything, or it gets too dangerous for us. I'll make sure he puts your money back in the account."

"I'm not keeping my money where other people can reach it. I don't trust them. It's mine, Eliot."

Secret Five: she doesn't like stuff; she prefers money, and it's her money. She doesn't share well; blame a particularly rough childhood in the foster system throughout which she had very few possessions to call her own.

A plane crash-lands on a stretch of highway with Parker in the baggage compartment after Hardison manages to reboot the plane's system during an attempted sabotage. All the passengers fumble around, not sure how to react to the chaotic situation. Nate and Sophie console Marissa Devins, as Eliot surveys the crowd in an attempt to find the thief. He breathes a sigh of relief catching sight of her blonde hair.

Her movements don't translate as fluidly or gracefully as they normally do. He analyzes her posture and predicts her possible injuries. "Darlin', what hurts?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

"Parker." His growl tells her this isn't the time for her to avoid his questions. He knows she's badly injured. After all, she spent an emergency landing in a cargo bin. "List 'em."

"None. I'm fine, Eliot."

"Damnit, Parker. I'm not doin' this shit with you. You're injured. Just fuckin' let me take care of you." Her eyes finally meet his when she nods her consent. Her pupils are different sizes, and he shakes his head with a sigh. "You've got a concussion at least. Nate, I need to get her out of here, so I can get her fixed up properly."

"Hardison has a booked in a hotel room. Sophie grabbed a medical kit from one of the on-site paramedics. I got us a car. We're ready when you are." Parker wavers on her feet, and Eliot lifts her off the ground, careful of her ribs. Habit sees her cuddling into his chest as she seeks the comfort and safety he always provides. If Sophie notices, she says nothing. In the car, he holds her in his lap, trying to keep her from jostling any of her injuries too much. With the constant start-and-stop of traffic, her ribs scream in protest, her vision swims, and nausea rolls through her in waves. She can't contain some of the pained gasps.

"Darlin', I've got to give you some pain medication." Her eyes widen in fear. Sophie watches like a concerned mother from the passenger seat. She witnesses the silent conversation between the hitter and the thief. "Okay?" He asks just to double check that they're on the same page, and she nods slowly. "That's my girl," he whispers fondly after injecting her with a painkiller. "You gotta stay awake, though. Concussion means you can't sleep, not yet."

When they finally check into their hotel rooms, Parker is valiantly fighting to stay conscious. She is pliant to his will as he cuts off her dress to get a better visual of all her injuries. Sophie brings more supplies: extra painkillers, blankets, pillows, and a myriad of clothing choices obtained from the gift shop. "Darlin', you got some air in that cargo hold, didn't ya?"

"The ceiling hurt," the thief mumbles.

"Yeah, I bet it did." He commiserates because he knows Parker doesn't exaggerate pain. She's one to ignore any injury until she's alone and can tend to it herself. He tries not to let this bother him as much as it does after years of being together. He can't blame her, though, as he is the exact same way. "Walk me through the security on the antiquities floor of the Cairo Museum," he requests, knowing it's one of her favorites and she will warm to the topic. Sophie smiles brightly, seeing a rare side of the hitter.

"Do you need any help," the grifter asks, hovering by the bedside and passing gauze and wrapping when necessary.

"He's good at this," Parker burbles somewhat incoherently from a mixture of heavy narcotics and a concussion. "He has patched me up for years, Soph." Eliot's hands falter a bit at her statement, and he hopes the grifter blames the concussion for, what the team would consider, an incorrect assumption of time. But the older woman is smart and her skill is reading people, so she offers Eliot a knowing smile and a look that says 'we'll talk later'.

"Has he," she asks, prompting the girl to add some stories. It should feel like taking advantage of the situation, but Sophie doesn't always see things in clear black-or-white; after all, she's a thief.

"He catches me when I fall, and he beats up people who mess with my jobs. He glares at people when they look at me funny. He keeps me safe. Oh, I don't think I was supposed to say that, so shhh, Sophie. Don't tell." Parker starts to lift her finger to her lips in a shushing motion, but winces.

"Darlin' if it hurts, don't do it." He catches her hand and gently brings it back down to rest on the mattress.

"Sorry I told our secret," she slurs.

"It's okay, sweetheart. I think Sophie was puttin' it together anyway. She won't tell." Eliot sends a pointed look towards the grifter, who nods her understanding. "See, secret's still safe."

"Can I have a kiss?" And she looks so hopeful that he can't say no to her. Leaning over her body very carefully, he kisses her tenderly and can't help the smile on his face when he sees her matching grin.

Secret Six: he would do anything for her. The little thief stole his heart, and he is perfectly content to let her keep it.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Here's the second installation of this story. Thanks to all who reviewed, and a special shout-out to floralissete for her ideas. Please drop a line and let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

She starts the job on edge and it has little to nothing to do with the fact that the client is Eliot's ex-fiancée. Her anxiety is based almost solely on the horses. Oh, and how she hates horses. Absolutely, downright despises the damn beasts, yet here she is staring face-to-face with a horse in its stall all because Eliot told her he needed her.

"Hurry up, Parker!" Eliot's rushed voice cuts through her haze and she walks slowly, very slowly, around Kentucky Thunder. The barn door swings open; the breath returns to her lungs and her brain feels a little less claustrophobic. Watching from the outside, she notices how well Eliot and Aimee work together, how the two seem to know each other's space. A jealous feeling burns in her gut. It's an emotion she has countered once or twice throughout her years as a thief. Archie had taken her aside after a client had double-booked thieves; the other thief retrieved the item, leaving Parker with envious jealousy, disappointment, and anger. The latter two emotions she had plenty of experience with, but it was her first experience with jealousy. It wasn't a feeling she enjoyed; hell, she still doesn't enjoy feeling whatsoever.

When it's all over and Sterling disappears into the grid work, Eliot leans against the bar top, staring into the whiskey in his glass. Guilt and worry churn through his insides. He barely resists the urge to knock his head melodramatically against the counter.

"Parker is looking for you." He ignores the words of his British friend. "Eliot, what happened with you and your former flame?"

"Nothing, Sophie." The denial rings through the empty bar, and the grifter shakes her head in disbelief.

"And that's why you're hiding from your girlfriend?"

"I ain't hidin'."

"She faced her fears for you today because you told her you needed her. Talk to her, Eliot."

Lifting his glass in a sarcastic toast, he downs it one and leaves the bar. The streets of LA bustle vibrantly; the scenery mocks his current state of being. It's lively, fun, and happy. He just wants to punch the shit out of something. Vaguely, he entertains the thought of finding a fight, but trying to locate a person who could actually challenge him and deliver the punishment he believes he deserves would take more than the energy he possesses. Instead, he wanders aimlessly until finally his feet decide enough is enough and he glares at the outside of the apartment door.

Her blonde hair hangs loosely; gravity pulls it straight as she hangs upside down by her knees. Her eyesight trains on the door- waiting. So when it opens, Eliot nearly walks into her. "Damnit, Parker," he growls. His hands scramble to steady her body as she swings back and forth from the hanging trapeze bar. "Get down from there; we need to talk." In a move that should by all extents and purposes be impossible, she dismounts smoothly and silently directly in front of him.

"Is this the part where you leave because you love her?"

The question sets him off guard. His heart clenches, and he averts his eyes because the look she gives him just hurts. There is no other word for it. In a feeble attempt to buy some time, his fingers skate through his long hair, catching the bandana in his palm as it falls. "I kissed her."

"Oh." He can almost see the thoughts forming in her mind. The words transform as she processes the situation with what she knows is supposed to be normal and what she thinks she feels. The moments tick by slowly; he doesn't know where to look; yet he gives her the time she needs to put the pieces together. "Okay."

"Okay," he repeats dumbfounded. The question is clear in his tone.

"You didn't answer my question." Again, her conversation makes a 180-degree-turn, and for the life of him, he can't figure out what they're talking about now. "Are you leaving me for her?"

"No, Parker, I don't want to leave, but this is your decision."

"Why would I want you to leave?"

Every fiber of his being wants to avoid the explanation. He doesn't want to tell her what a normal person would do in this situation. His mama didn't raise a liar though. Not when it mattered, and Parker matters. "Darlin', usually kissing someone who's not your girlfriend is seen as cheating."

"Oh. Do you want her to be your girlfriend again?"

"No, Parker. I don't want anyone but you. It just… Fuck… I don't know. It just happened."

"I get it."

"What?" The question tumbles from his lips before he can stop it.

"You have history with her. You need control, and you didn't get any say in the way it ended. I get it. Did it help you close the book?" He nods lamely because her logic baffles him. Her understanding astounds him. "Then, I don't want to leave if you don't want to leave. I don't want you to kiss anyone else or anything like that again, but I don't think it changes anything." His arms snatch out and pull her to his chest. One hand buries itself in her hair and the other holds her tightly to him. Each breath is full of her scent and, damn, if he isn't the lucky man in the world.

Secret Seven: sometimes he feels like he takes advantage of her less-than-normal outlook on life because he screws up time and time again. People don't give her enough credit; she understands more of the normal world than they give her credit for. That she understands

You don't become the world's greatest thief doing the same lifts over and over again; you've got to spice it up and perfect each scenario. At her level, it is rare you get to try something new, so when Nate asks Parker to rob a bank in the middle of a robbery, adrenalin and excitement rush through her veins. Eliot rolls his eyes, knowing their evenings are going to be filled with retellings of this story for a few days.

Except it's just too easy… you know until Nate gets shot.

When they finally get back to LA, Parker showers four times. Literally four times. Eliot joins her during the last one, stepping behind her in their shower, his hands slipping over her wet skin.

"I think you got it all off, darlin'."

"I hate sweat," she growls, scrubbing a loofah over her neck and chin. "I really really hate other people's sweat, especially boy sweat."

"Hate to point it out, sweetheart, but you get my sweat on you all the time between sparring and sex."

"Yeah, but I don't put on your disgusting sweaty clothes. That's just gross."

"I hear ya, darlin', but you've been in here over an hour. I promise you; all the boy sweat is off of ya." She acquiesces and leaves the scalding water when he does. When she takes another two showers in the morning, he says nothing, but makes sure a bowl of cereal is waiting for her when she is done.

Secret Eight: Parker has a slightly obsessive thing about being clean. Eliot thinks it's endearing; after all, it means more time with his naked thief, and she always smells like a hint of vanilla, which even on his worst days remind him of home.

Hearing Parker list the proof concerning Luca's status as an orphan heats anger in his veins. She describes the way the boy flinches away from contact because he expects to be hurt, and he wants to destroy every damn person that ever lifted a hand to her.

Belgrade is beautiful at night; it calms Parker's anxious state for a moment. She hates acting and grifting; it's not her stage. She survives by being invisible. Then, her mark starts talking about foster children and how, despite the tragedy, they offer a business opportunity. Her instinct takes over, and suddenly, Nicolas has a fork protruding from his shoulder. Eliot's breath catches in his throat when he sees the blonde swan dive out of the open window. He growls into the ear bud about the stabbing.

In that moment, he knows this job is going to push her limits far past her emotional boundaries. She doesn't feel. Rather, she doesn't know how to feel or how to deal with any range of emotions in a normal, healthy way. She resorts to stabbing people or jumping off of buildings. When those don't work, she runs. She runs far, far away until her emotions can be ignored. Knowing all of this, he itches to pull her into his embrace and cradle her, protecting her from the world and her painful memories.

Eliot Spencer is afraid. He's terrified this will be the case that pushes her emotionally over board, making her jump ship and flee from their ragtag team and, more importantly, from him. After understanding what it is like to be in a real relationship with her, one where he can cook her dinner, fall asleep next to her, and wake up with her snuggled to his chest, he doesn't think he will survive if she runs now. He thinks it just might break him.

That night, after she stumbled upon an arms smuggling ring using the orphanage as cover, she sneaks into his room, falling into his arms. He holds her as tightly as he can, in the hopes that maybe it will protect her from the demons inside her head. Tremors wrack her small frame and it is all she can do not to completely lose it. He hates to see her cry, not because he doesn't know how to handle the tears, but because it's a visual reminder that there are certain things in this world he just can't protect her from, no matter how much he tries.

Sleep evades him. Rather, he avoids it. He wants to be awake to soothe away her nightmares before they have a chance to startle her from slumber. Each time her breathing hitches, his fingers gently caress the worry from her forehead; his arms cradle her tighter, and his words whisper comfortingly in her ear. He tells her what he wishes someone had told her childhood self. "S'okay, Parker. I got ya. You're safe, darlin'. Nothing's gonna hurt you here." Over and over again, the mantra repeats.

When the nightmares change, becoming more vivid, more painful to relive, she wakes up fighting. With gentle hands, he defends against each punch she throws, never restraining her flailing limbs, only waiting for her to recognize her surroundings. The haggard breath that escapes her lips when that recognition does come breaks his heart like the tears that run down her cheeks. He does what he has for years, pulling the tortured woman into his lap, rocking her as he sings softly. His lips press against her forehead. His neck is damp from her tears. Her hands grip at his shoulders. Her legs wrap around his torso, anchoring to him in this moment where he is real and her dreams are nothing but bad memories.

"Parker, promise me somethin', okay? Promise me you won't run. Promise me no matter what you'll come back to me." His large, calloused hands cradle her face, his thumbs gently swiping away her tears. He kisses her forehead again and waits for her response. Again, he is actually scared she will run, turn around and just book it out of dodge because it's all too much for her to handle. She looks at him carefully, her eyes searching for something in his own. Then, she nods. "Say it, Parker. I need to hear you say it."

"I promise I won't run, not from you. If I do, I'll make sure you know where I'm going, and I'll make sure you know I'm coming back for you. I always come back for what's mine."

His shoulders slouch in relief from the lifted weight. "I know this con is too close to home. We'll find something… a building for you to jump off of, a circus for you to acrobat, a mat for you to spar. We'll find something. I promise, you and me, okay? I love you, darlin'." The words slip from his lips at the end of his declaration before he can catch them; he's not sure if he even wanted to catch them. Her eyes widen and he thinks she's trying to process and understand. The muscles in her back tighten with tension as she mulls the affirmation over.

"I… You…" Words escape her until finally, she just blurts out a string of syllables she hopes make sense. "No one has ever said that to me before." Then, his heart actually breaks for the child she once was (and sometimes still is).

The confusion etched on her face deepens. "I think I love you. Archie told me once that I love money. I like you more than money. I mean if I had to choose, I would pick you. I would pick you even over Bunny. I think that's love, right?" She looks at him desperately, begging him to help her understand. "I smile when you smile because I know you're happy. When you sing to me, or hug me, or whenever you're all Eliot, my stomach feels funny… but a good funny," she amends quickly. "The good funny like when you're falling and your stomach wobbles and flutters and whatever," she explains. "That's love, right?"

"Yeah, darlin', that's love." Despite the situation, his heart warms at her words because his crazy thief loves him back. It doesn't matter that it's the first time the sentiment has been spoken aloud after years of being involved. It doesn't matter that she's a blubbering mess because this job screws with her head. It doesn't matter he, of all people, can barely keep his emotions in control. What matters is that his words put a smile on her face after hours of nightmares. What matters is that she loves him and that she won't run. What matters is how shockingly right the whole thing feels.

In all honesty, her spiel is the one thing, the one and only thing, that keeps him from losing his damn cool when she returns to the orphanage by herself to save all the children, despite the gun smuggling ring on the ground floor of the factory. Since his fears all revolve around her safety, he realizes for the third time in as many days that he is absolutely terrified. Now though, it's not about her running and leaving his sorry ass behind; it's about her actually dying, getting caught in a gun fight trying desperately to protect a group of orphans with whom she identifies.

So logically, as the team speeds to the warehouse, he cusses in every language he knows (there's a handful.) and then prays to a God he doesn't talk to nearly enough in the same languages. He just wants his thief to be alive.

When she crawls into his lap hours later in a hotel room in Paris, her voice is quiet and reserved. "Thank you." There's a pause. "I know you wanted to yell, but thank you for not being mad at me. I just… They're kids. They shouldn't turn out like me. They shouldn't have to turn out like me. I needed to try to give them a way out." He nods his understanding, whispers his love, and wraps his body around hers.

Secret Nine: she doesn't understand social cues more often than not, but she has a big heart; she genuinely cares. The longer the team works cons, the more the others understand that. The real secret is that it lets her believe the hitter, the man who has killed people, is still a good man, her good man. He knows it's a trust he doesn't deserve, and that knowledge fires his love for her.

The elevator nearly cuts off his head. Okay, he admits that might be a bit overdramatic, but the wires brush past his hair. He feels the whoosh of air, and damn, her lack of ability to follow a plan. He storms into the office and demands Sophie talk some sense into her because clearly she doesn't listen to anyone.

"Parker. Parker. I think what everyone is feeling is that if you want to take insane risks on your own time, then go ahead. But when we're on a job, you have to consider the rest of us. Excuse me!" Sophie gestures wildly in frustration as the thief walks past her.

"This isn't for me. It's addressed to someone named Alice White." She throws the envelope at Hardison, who calmly explains that she is Alice White, and apparently his aliases are so damn concrete that this Alice White character is required to appear for jury duty. "Congratulations, Alice White thanks you for getting her out of it." She hates being yelled at, hates being scolded, hates people treating her like she doesn't care, so her tone is just a bit snippy.

"Jury duty… A place where you have to consider instructions…"

"Where you have to consider other people's point of views," Sophie adds victoriously.

Eliot groans. This isn't going to go well, not on any scale. "There's gonna be normal people, Nate…"

"No, you're not getting out of this," he declares. "Alice White is reporting for jury duty." The booming slam of her office door being closed with such force perfectly describes her feelings on her punishment.

The game is on. Condensation rolls temptingly down the glass bottles in his six pack. Nate again declares that he has a job for Eliot, and now the hitter feels like he gets to share her punishment. It's clearly not enough that he has to listen to her bitch about jury duty every night. Swiping his beer back from Nate's grasp, they end up at the factory Earnshaw is using as headquarters for profiling the jury. He is still pissed about missing the game, but she's in one of his plaid button-ups and his anger doesn't stay around for long.

Eliot plays chess. He says so when Nate asks the team. Of course, no one believes him, and Nate goes into a long-winded spiel about the king being the weakest piece on the board.

At least he got to Hardison in the face with a filled garbage bag.

Secret Ten: it drives him crazy when people believe he's only good for hitting people. He's smart, damnit, and no one gives him credit for being anything besides a brick wall. Granted sometimes that counts in his favor, but still.

"Alright, so we have one more piece of business left to do, right," Nate sighs after showing Hurley out of the Leverage Associates office.

"Second Act isn't the right place for her. She needs to be around people who better understand the issues she's struggling with. People more like her," Sophie tells the rehabilitation center's chief physician.

Parker runs at him full speed, jumping into his arms and holding on like a koala.

"Oh," he laughs because really, he is equally happy that she's coming back home. During her stint in rehab, Eliot finds that he doesn't like to sleep without her anymore. Her missing warmth in the bed makes for a rough ninety minutes. Not that he got much sleep over the length of the con, what with three international gangs trying to kill the mark and Hardison sitting on a bomb, but the realization still stands. "When do the happy pills wear off?"

"I missed you," she squeals loudly in his ear before going to hug Hardison. Sophie smiles at him knowingly. The hacker is confronted with an armful of the thief, and Nate brushes off her reaction as a very un-Parker-like side effect. He catches her belongings when Nate tosses them his direction.

When they fall into bed later that night, she is still feeling the effects of the anti-depressants. She rambles on and on, telling him about all the normal emotions she now thinks she understands. She sighs and looks up at him, her hands trailing from his hips to his ribcage. His forearms brace against the mattress on either side of her head, the tips of her hair tickling his skin. "I love you." His eyes close briefly at her words because, damn, it feels good to hear them aloud. "I love you, even when the pills make me fuzzy."

"They'll wear off soon, darlin'."

"Good. I don't do drugs. Well I guess now I do," she wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"You don't do drugs, sweetheart. You took a prescribed medication once a day for three days," he explains in the softest way he can. "Plus, you got me, darlin'. I promise you, I'm never going to let you get addicted, okay?" She hums her understanding and tilts her head up to kiss him. When her legs tighten around his hips, he groans, dropping his head to her shoulder.

Secret Eleven: the hitter and the thief are both loners by trade, yet neither can get a decent night's rest alone. He thinks maybe, what with the team doing its thing and Parker sharing his life, he isn't a lone wolf anymore.

The word that comes to mind is cluster-fuck.

They don't socialize with the normal world all that often, but Parker decides she wants to dance for whatever reason. Eliot grumbles until she steps out in a blue wrap dress that is skintight. It takes him a second to lift his jaw off the ground. He knows she knows exactly what her attire is doing to him; he also knows she will play it to her advantage. In other words, he can't put that dress on the floor until she gets to go dancing. Point to Parker.

He picks the club because lets face it; her knowledge of the area is limited to places from which she can steal high-end valuables. Clubs of the dancing variety don't typically fall in that category. It's loud but not deafeningly so. After a few drinks, he leaves her at the bar for a moment to find the bathroom.

Distracted by the strobe lights and laser patterns, Parker misses the appearance of a tall man by her side. He watches her with amusement and casually sips his drink. "What's a beautiful woman like yourself doing at a club like this?"

"I'm here for the dancing," she answers with a smile, still excited by the loud music and light show.

"Well isn't that a coincidence? I am too. Mind if I buy you a drink?"

"I don't see why not. I like Sex on the Beach."

"I'm sure you do, beautiful." The man leans over the counter, signaling the bartender. "Here you go…" He pauses, clearly asking her to fill in her name in the verbal blank provided. This, however, is one of those social cues Parker doesn't pick up on. She accepts the drink with a smile and gives her thanks.

The bar is loud, and people press forward from all sides until Parker is chest-to-chest with the man. He's a good deal taller than she is, but in heels, it's not a difference that makes conversation uncomfortable. No, what makes the conversation uncomfortable is her lack of socializing experience and her obliviousness to blatant flirting. The man isn't discouraged though and continues to engage her. Finally he works his way back towards an introduction. Sure, it's a little backwards, but with Parker involved, everything is usually backwards. "My name is…"

"Quinn," Eliot interrupts from behind the tall man. "What are you doin' here?"

"Just having a conversation with a lovely lady. Shouldn't you be somewhere else? I don't know stealing a monkey or liberating Croatia?" Eliot growls, the noise vibrating deep within his chest. "What, Caveman? Use your words like a big boy."

Parker picks up on the signs. She has witnessed more than enough fights, so when his fists clench and his chest expands, his brow furrows into a deadly glare. "C'mon, Eliot. Let's go dance." Her hand slips around his left wrist, tugging him in the direction of the crowd.

When Quinn puts two-and-two together, laughter barks from his throat. "Oh, that's just too damn good. You finally decided to settle down. Good for you," he mocks. "I'll have to pass along the message that Spencer's out of the game. Hell, there are a lot of people who will be interested to learn you've developed a weakness. Hmm," he hums. "And I here I thought you were a brunette man."

"Hey, you better watch it," Parker threatens as she advances. "I am not a good enemy to have, Quinn. There isn't a security system in the world that can protect you if I decide to come after you. Brute strength is all fine and dandy when you can find your target, but here's the thing: I've perfected the skill of being invisible. You can't hit what you can't see, and I promise you won't see me coming. Got it, buddy boy?"

He nods his understanding, trying to hide the smile on his face, truly underestimating her talent. "Nice seeing you, Eliot. Maybe we'll run into each again soon." The man walks away, leaving the couple by the bar.

"You just threatened an international hitter, Parker. Are you trying to give me a damn heart attack, woman?" Eliot yells, gesturing madly at the blonde.

"No, he was being mean, and I was trying to keep you from having to punch people on your night off."

"If you didn't want me to punch him, you shouldn't have been flirting with him in the first freakin' place!"

"I wasn't flirting," she defends. "I was waiting for you and watching the light show, and then he was just there. He was talking to me and being nice. You and Sophie always say I should talk to people, normal people, and get practice on how to be normal or whatever, so when I have to grift for a con, I don't screw it up. I was doing what you told me!"

"Parker, he ain't normal! He does what I do… He does what I did before," he amends. "That ain't normal! And you just had to go threaten him after you flirted with him. If you're tryin' to make me jealous, darlin', oh, it's on."

They're still fighting when they hold Nate's intervention. Sophie is so fed up with the two of them she hits him over the head with her journal in a feeble attempt to knock some sense into him.

Then, of course, because that's just how unfair life is, the woman he "hits it off with" during Blackpool's event is Nate's ex-wife. He can feel Parker glaring at him from the van. While he knows that she wasn't flirting with Quinn intentionally, it still ruffled his feathers in a bad way, and now he's going to let her know exactly how that feels.

Payback is a bitch.

Apparently, though, karma is a bigger bitch than payback.

The fact that he can hear Parker making out with someone over his ear bud does nothing, absolutely nothing, to quell his irritation with this whole thing. When he asks and Sophie rolls her eyes at him, he can't contain the growl. Oh, someone's gonna be at the receiving end of a mean elbow or two. Temporarily muting her com with a strategic press to her ear, she reminds him.

"Hardison doesn't know you two have anything, so stop that train of thought right there."

He growls again. "Have I told you I hate it when you're right?"

"Such a man," she sighs dramatically.

"She has shorts on right? She's not flippin' around the lasers wearin' that skintight dress. She's not doin' it. No, she is not flashin' him with her naughty bits." Eliot grumbles, having temporarily muted his com to rant to Sophie.

"Naughty bits," she asks, amused at the hitter's turn of phrase. "And you know better than I do what she has under her dress. I doubt you're going to like the result. I'm sure Hardison just got an eye full. If he wasn't in love with her then, he sure is now, especially after that kiss."

"Ya know what? Shut up. Lets just get this shit over with."

Everyone seems to have lost his or her damn mind. Nate shouts a response to Hardison, but actually shouts at his ex-wife. Sophie sarcastically exclaims her feelings in the middle of the reception, and Parker actually throws the multi-million dollar David to the hacker, who is remarkably surprised he managed to catch the damn thing.

"Get it over with," he growls to the team as a whole when he turns to take a sip of his drink.

The team meets back up at headquarters. Parker skips around triumphantly. Because he's still pissed about Sophie's little comment about the hacker's probable feelings for the thief, he whistles obnoxiously when Nate requests to see her in his office. He might be the most disciplined member of the team, but hey, he sure as hell never promised to be the most mature.

Then the clusterfuck that is his current tit-for-tat with Parker actually morphs into a screw-up of monumental proportions.

Sterling decides to make an appearance, and with him, comes a plan that destroys everything the team put into action.

Quinn and Eliot brawl in the hanger of the airport, each man delivering powerful and painful blows to the other. In the end, Eliot gets the leg up and knocks his opponent out cold before being able to tell his teammates they're blown. Hardison takes a beating at the hands of some of Sterling's muscle, and Jim Sterling himself catches Parker in the armored car.

"Eliot, stay low. Sterling, what do you want?" Nate demands. His team is in jeopardy, and it's his responsibility.

Then, of course, the con takes yet another turn because Sophie is still in possession of the second David statute from ten years ago. She pulls her own con on the team; Eliot fumes in anger because if there's one thing you don't do, it's con your own damn teammates.

Sophie is to bring the second David in exchange for Parker. He says nothing about the irony of the situation and stomps into the office filled with Sterling's goons to get Hardison and Nate out of dodge. His ribs ache; a few are broken and he has one hell of a concussion, but he's had worse and his teammates need him.

This time, when the five part ways, he knows this won't be their last run. He doesn't worry about that anymore. The logical part of his brain tells him to walk away and never look back at this team thing. It's too dangerous, and he really doesn't enjoy prison. He has more than enough money saved to take Parker somewhere and have a wonderful life of retirement… And that's not even counting the money she has stored up. Another part of him, though, knows he wants, at the very least, to give revenge on IYS and Blackpool for Nate's sake. He knows he will come back for that.

Secret Twelve: deep down, Eliot wants to come back because finally, he has learned what it's like to rely on a team. His secret is that now he cares about each and every one of them. It's not a job anymore. He is the hitter because he wants to protect them, because a man protects his family.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This installment is from the first three episodes of season two. I apologize for the delay; a friend of mine borrowed the DVDs, and I'm just now getting them back. I was originally planning on doing a chapter per season, and then the canons about each episode morphed into long-winded back-stories. **So if you're still with me, please let me know what you think and/or what you would like to see in upcoming chapters.**

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

"So we're really going to Sophie's musical? We're really going to torture ourselves for two hours?" Parker nods with a smile. Eliot rolls his eyes, not looking forward to this in the least. Later that evening, when Sophie says her singing isn't as good as her acting, he just knows without a shadow of a doubt that the evening is going to suck.

His suspicions are confirmed when the evening is disastrous as predicted. Clearly, being away from the team for extended periods of time actually makes Parker's social abnormalities more pronounced. "Never before has the Sound of Music made me want to root for the Nazis," she reads from an online review. "…The costumes were really great," she adds as an afterthought.

"Forget it. There is nothing you can say that will make me feel better," Sophie groans.

"I know what will make you feel better." She speaks, and he can practically see the wheels turning in her head. "We should steal something." Yep, sounds about right as far as Parker's suggestions for lifting spirits go. Nate, of course, objects, what with him deciding to channel the Catholic way of life, you know stop drinking and move into a bar. Despite Nate's objections, they each commiserate about how he ruined them for the jobs they used to do pre-Leverage-Inc. Parker stole the Hope Diamond and returned it simultaneously because she was bored. Hardison spent days hacking the White House email. He pauses in his retelling to bring up some strange business that has been happening in Pakistan.

"I'm miserable. They're miserable," Sophie emphasizes. "What... What have you been doing the last six months," she asks Eliot.

"I was in Pakistan," he answers with a glare in Hardison's direction.

"You see what you did… you took the world's best criminals and you broke 'em."

"This is the problem with being a good guy. It gets under your skin," Eliot explains after Hardison's bit about breaking everybody's usually criminal productivity.

Parker gets under his skin too, and he thinks he's almost immune to her insanity, especially when she shows up at Nate's place in a nun's costume. The questions about where she got it or why she's wearing it don't even cross his mind because it's Parker and this is her normal, which means this is his normal. Nate seems to agree.

"Oh, she's dressed that way because she's doing a con."

"You thought what?"

"I mean it is Parker."

"Fair enough." Then the mastermind tries to kick everyone out, but really, he has 700 sports channels, so Eliot isn't going anywhere. The ear bud crackles to life in his ear as a basketball game fills the screen. The conversation about people and locks draws his attention from the second quarter of the game. The familiarity of it forces a smile to his face and he remembers the circumstances that shaped his relationship with Parker.

Secret Thirteen: everyone figures she wanted more because it's always the woman who wants more. Well stereotypes be damned. He wanted romance, intimacy, and connection when she wanted sex with no strings. Eliot waited until he heard the click, so to speak, and he has never been so thankful for his patience.

That same trait saves Hardison's ass when the hacker makes a remark about the exploding capsules not being fully tested.

"Hey, this detonator… if I'm around the corner, it should still be in range, right?"

"Yeah, should be. I haven't really worked out all the kinks. Sometimes the things just go off."

"Wait… hey! I thought you said this thing was safe!"

"Mostly… Mostly safe… I was very specific. Uh, sometimes the frequency gets messed up."

"Frequencies! What frequencies? I've got these things in my pants!"

A car alarm goes off and Eliot actually jumps. "What are the chances Eliot's crotch will actually explode?" Parker asks innocently, tilting her head to the side analyzing the hitter's package.

"Damnit. Hardison."

At least he gets to scare the living shit out of the obnoxious banker. It draws a chuckle from his chest and his lips turn upwards in a smile.

He never did theater, but he thinks he pulled off a pretty convincing death scene; Sophie seems pleased, and the con ends more successfully than he thought. He smirks at Nate's fond reluctance to do another job. It's more about tradition now, saying it to say it. It seems like they're in this for the long haul. They're a team, his team, and he's happy with that, though he probably wouldn't admit it.

Her feet knock a steady rhythm against the counter. Her head bops along to a song he hums and his knife chops in time. It all seems choreographed. "So how's your crotch?" Her interruption comes abruptly. His noises choke in his throat for a second as he turns to look at her. "The detonator thing near your crotch," she clarifies. "It didn't screw up anything down there, right? I mean it still gets happy and whatever?"

He puts the chopped ingredients in this refrigerator, subtly switches off the stove, and walks over to where she's sitting on the counter. "It had better still do that because I'll kill 'im if his damn exploding capsules screwed that up."

"I think we should double check and make sure." Her fingers are already tugging his belt through the loops and sliding the zipper down. "What do you think?" Her hand disappears beneath the band of his boxers.

"Umm," he stutters. "Hmm, yeah. That sounds good, darlin'. Whatever you want." His words fade off as he fights for control.

It's not until much later that the food actually gets prepared. By then, she's wearing his shirt and he's clad only in boxers. They find a horrible action movie to put on, and she curls into him, her plate balancing on her knees. He kisses her temple from time to time between bites of food and sips of beer. It's a damn perfect night.

Secret Fourteen: he never thought he would settle, but damn, if he isn't perfectly content with his life at this moment. He knows what he wants, and she's sitting right next to him.

A bad feeling settles in her stomach before the tap-out job. She can't explain it, can't put the nausea or discontent into words that other people will understand, because she knows he can take care of himself and she knows he can take a beating just as well as he can dole one out. Still, there's something about it from the start that sits uncomfortably. Her inability to process the emotion transforms into her pulling away and distancing herself.

"Let me borrow you." His hand settles on her waist, and he realizes belatedly it's the first time he has touched her in days. He resists the urge to laugh at the hacker's stance. Parker kicks his ass. There's a gleam of pride in his eyes as she executes the moves with near perfection. Hardison flails around madly in her grasp and everyone ignores his obvious discomfort in favor of discussing the con on the MMA gym.

He has endless respect for the MMA fighters. Hell, he's one of them. It's brutal, sure, but it's a sport. Passion seeps from his words, as he explains to Sophie what fighting is. He explains the desperate need to control something, anything, about the world. He tries to end it in a joke, yet she ignores his attempt at humor. "What is happening with Parker?" She inquires as the two wait for the mark.

"She's weirder than normal. Hell if I know." Eliot scrubs his hand over his face. "I don't know."

"I know this suggestion may be a little out there for the two of you, but why don't you try talking to her?"

"Because we're both so in touch with our emotions?" Sophie sighs dramatically, but really, he has a point. She nods her understanding and replaces her earbud.

Then Parker understands why she feels uncomfortable with this con, as Eliot willingly walks in to a fight, ready to take a beating. He says he can take the punishment. He says it's not what he needs to control. He says what he needs to control is inside. That doesn't stop her nerves. She double, triple, and quadruple checks the water bottle to make sure it isn't drugged. She fidgets nervously, and that says something because she's the best thief in the world. Parker doesn't fidget, yet she wrings her hands and watches her boyfriend get the living shit beat out of him.

Later, he jokes that he needs a bathtub of ice instead of just a damn icepack. He adds humor to his tone, and the team believes him, brushes it off as just another beating. As everyone talks, Parker moves to sit behind him. He leans into her chest, letting her take some of his weight. She holds the icepack to his shoulder, ignoring everyone else, as she categorizes his likely injuries.

It's clear the team needs to get out of dodge. The small town is just too hot for them to be in, and Hardison ushers everyone into Lucille. Eliot takes one look at the van and knows his pain level can't take riding cross-country. Parker seems to sense his hesitation.

"You promised you would help me buy a car." Her blunt statement causes all four teammates to stop, turn, and stare at her.

"Umm… Parker, he's a little worse for the wear. Ask him when we get back to Boston," Nate states.

"No. I mean… I think I saw one I like when we drove past the dealership the other day. It's right over there. You guys head back. We'll meet you there in a few days." Sophie seems to catch on to Parker's game plan and leads Hardison and Nate into the van. As she closes the door, she gives an understanding nod.

Almost as soon as the van is out of sight, Parker slides under his arm, acting as a human crutch. He sighs, relinquishing his control and letting her take a good portion of his weight. "You better be serious about buyin' a car, darlin', because you sure as hell ain't stealin' one and there's no way I'm gettin' on a damn plane right now."

She pulls a large wad of cash from somewhere and waves it around. He doesn't ask because he really doesn't want to know and his painkillers are wearing off. With his knowledge of cars and her obsession with shiny things, it doesn't take long to pick a car they both agree on. Her refusal to buy a truck makes him smiling because her logic is just so Parker that he can't help it. "Trucks are for boys. I'm not a boy. I don't want a boy car, and if I need a boy car, I have your boy car."

"You're not allowed to drive my truck."

"Whatever," she mutters. "I still have your boy car if I need it, so no trucks. What about a bug?"

"Hell no. I'm not riding around in a damn German matchbox. Pick a car that isn't so freaking girly." The sales assistant covers a grin behind a large wrinkled hand; he feebly coughs to disguise his laugh. "See, he agrees with me," Eliot argues, though he knows the stranger's opinion will do nothing to sway Parker. He doubts his own opinion will do anything to convince her of another car. She falls in love with a red mid-sized suburban. The sales assistant balks a little when he is handed a wad of cash that more than covers the cost of the car. Eliot smiles proudly at her when she tells the man to keep the change.

A few towns over, they stop to raid a medical supply store for everything Eliot needs. After three or four hours, a dingy hotel seems to rise in the midst of a cornfield. Looking over at her slumbering hitter, she makes an executive decision and pulls into the parking lot. It says a lot about the strength of the painkillers that she manages to check in and get everything upstairs to the room before he even realizes the car is stopped. "C'mon, Eliot." He grunts something incomprehensible. Nimble fingers reach across his body to undo the seatbelt before gingerly leading him from the car.

Instead of taking a shower or finding some sort of food, Parker sits on the bed, her back resting against the headboard, and she maneuvers herself until Eliot's head pillows in her lap with his body pressed against the side of her legs. Running her fingers through his hair, she hums to him tunelessly until his mind settles and returns to sleep.

Faces of those he killed haunt him, having been resurrected by nearly killing a man. Nightmares shake him violently from sleep, and it's his injuries that prevent him from attacking her in a sleep-induced panic. "No one's going to hurt you, not here." Her words calm his fears temporarily until his mind catches up. When he notices his fighting stance and how his body is poised to strike her, his stomach lurches.

"Damnit, I could have hurt you."

"But you didn't." And just like they fall back into a conversation that's too familiar for her liking.

"Parker," he sighs, trying to distance himself from the blonde, as if three extra feet would really protect her in the off chance that he snaps and actually attempts an attack. He's dangerous, and he can't understand why she doesn't see that. It frustrates him because she should realize he is bad news. She should turn on her heel and run in the opposite direction because it's likely that if she sticks around, he's going to end up taking her down with him because he sure as hell is sinking like the damn Titanic.

"No," she insists. "I don't care what you say. I am always safe with you. Always. I know you're damaged. I know! I've seen first hand what your hands can do." He drops his head in shame because as much as his brain insists that he's no good for her, he loves her and doesn't want her to leave. "Those hands have braided my hair and given Bunny a bath and made delicious food I can't pronounce. That's what I care about, Eliot. So yeah, you could have hurt me, but you didn't and you won't. Around me, your hands are nice and gentle and kind. I don't notice the blood on them. I don't care about that. Okay?" He nods dumbly because there isn't another appropriate reaction. He wants to hold her, kiss her, and love her, but those actions just aren't plausible given his injury level. Instead, he gives up control and lets her care for him.

Secret Fifteen: Eliot nurses his own wounds. He hates to be coddled, hates to be vulnerable, and hates to rely on anyone other than himself. He would much rather hide away by himself until healed. In reality, that's not the secret. Here's what is: he tried that once- dropped off all contact, ran away to a safe house, stitched himself up and set his own bone breaks. Parker appeared two days later, looking like a bat out of hell, ranting and raving about how she thought he was dead and how dare he. He still doesn't know how she found the safe house to begin with. What he does know is that despite her insanity, what with the poking of bruises and all, she's an excellent nurse, and his drug-addled mind makes a mental note to invest in an appropriate costume.

"You saved the little boy." His fists pummel the bag in response. "You saw the signs like I saw the signs with Luca." His next hit is particularly vicious. "Is he somewhere safe now?"

"Yeah, Parker. Randy is safe. The US marshal took care of it."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"I don't think fine means fine." Her statement is accompanied by a soft whoosh of air as she dismounts off the trapeze bar that hangs in the designated gym area of their apartment.

"Just drop it, Parker." He brushes past her, leaving her standing there alone and staring at an empty room. Standing in the shower, hot water raining down on his tired muscles, his fists clench as he forces himself to remember that he isn't the victim anymore. He is in control. He says it again and again, reminding himself that he is no longer that ten-year-old boy getting smacked around for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His teeth worry at his bottom lip, as he uses the blunt pain to ward off his tears. When the water runs cold and his body starts to shiver, he acquiesces and steps from the shower. His favorite flannel pajama pants and a well-worn t-shirt lay folded on the counter.

It barely bothers him that she managed to sneak in the locked bathroom without him noticing. He figures it's her job to be invisible like it's his job to notice the invisible; they balance each other out. Some days he sees her, and she loses their unspoken little game. Other days, she manages to slip just underneath his radar. The towel absorbs most of the water from his hair and body before he dresses. His stomach rumbles uncomfortably, interrupting his morose self-imposed isolation.

The smell of a toasted Panini pulls him into the living room, where the sandwich and a cold beer await him. His thief is nowhere to be found, but she clearly set everything up for him. The TV plays the start of a game he recorded, and a bag of chips rest enticingly on the coffee table. When he finally stumbles into the bedroom, he dances on the edge of sleep, trying to hold off until he knows where she is. He thinks he may dream the feeling of her lips pressed to his forehead soothingly because when he wakes up hours later, her side of the bed is empty.

Secret Sixteen: she knows exactly what it's like to be confronted with your past, especially when the past is a series of events that are best kept buried away under mental lock and key. She knows from experience that it's usually a solo activity of taking each unnerving, resurrected memory and shoving it back into a metaphorical safe where it will never see the light of day. It's why they work as a couple. She knows when to push him to open up or when to let him process alone. She knows when to drag him to the gym to beat out his anger, offer him a bottle of Jack Daniels to drown his guilt, or take him to bed to anchor his reality. Bottom line: she knows him, and at the end of the day, she understands.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Happy Halloween! Two chapters for you today because I was in a good mood. **I'm running out of secrets to incorporate; please let me know what you think and/or what you would like to see in upcoming chapters.**

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It's one of those mornings. She simply can't keep her hands to herself, and really, he's not dumb enough to try and stop her. When he wakes up to her lips and tongue tracing along the scars on his torso, he willingly bets they're going to be late for work. His estimated time of arrival alters again when she slips into the shower behind him. His professionalism should be kicking in right about now and all but dragging her to Nate's to talk about the latest client, but then she does that thing with her tongue and he can't bring himself to think, much less care.

Parker begs to take the motorcycle. Flat-out pleads. Whether her reasoning is for the thrill of the ride, the intimacy of being pressed against him, or the pleasurable rumble between her legs, he rolls his eyes and agrees. They share the usual pointed looks back and forth, silently arguing over his insistence on her helmet. She should know by now that he doesn't joke when it comes to her safety.

The ride takes much longer than necessary because he has to stop every so often to swat at her meandering hands. When Nate's place finally comes into view, Eliot almost sighs in relief. That sigh morphs into a squeak (a manly squeak, mind you) when her hands drop from his torso to below his waist, casually brushing over his package. "Jesus, Parker," he grunts.

"What," she asks innocently, her blonde hair spilling out from the helmet as she removes it. The sight of his thief in a leather jacket and riding helmet never ceases to shock him, and it takes him a second to put his thoughts back on the right track. "C'mon, slow poke." With a shake of his head and a trademark eye roll, he follows her into the bar and up to Nate's place.

Immediately, he navigates to the coffee, humming gratefully as the steaming liquid fills the mug. "Ha," she shouts victoriously in his ear; years of training keep him from jumping like a startled animal. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turns to look at her.

"Damnit, Parker. Don't do that." The counter supports much of his weight as he leans into it and slowly sips his coffee. She stands just within his personal space, practically pressing him into the counter. He doesn't seem to mind, so she doesn't make the effort to move.

"You owe me five bucks!"

"And why is that, darlin'?"

"'Cause you said all the sex was gonna make us late, but see, we're the first ones here. You were wrong, so I win the bet!"

"Or they started the con without us."

"They wouldn't start a con without the thief and the hitter. That's just stupid. Plus we're awesome. They would wait," she states definitively before skipping off to find cereal. Nate appears from upstairs somewhere and takes Parker to the client meeting, despite Eliot's insistence that it's a bad idea. No matter how much better she gets about socializing, Parker will never be normal; he has a point when he tells her there's something wrong with her. Then again, all the morning sex screwed with his usual routine, so he stops arguing and enjoys a bit of peace and quiet.

Hardison strolls in later jabbering about some technology thing. With the magazine open on his lap and his mug in one hand, Eliot doesn't understand why the hacker insists on explaining the damn thing. He doesn't care. He really doesn't care, not when his brain is still happily relaxed from going a few rounds with Parker and the coffee is making his gut feel all warm and content.

"It generates a magnetic field… are you even listening?"

"Yeah, man."

"What'd I say?"

"You're explaining how you're still a virgin?" The irritated scowl on Hardison's face pulls a humorous smirk from the hitter. Parker and Nate walk in, and they catch the end of the conversation about Parker's social skills, or lack thereof. "I told you not to take her," Eliot reminds the mastermind, setting his coffee down within reach.

"Well you were right. Where's Sophie… Well we're not waiting. Let's go." Nate gives his cue and Hardison pops up to do the run through of the mark. When Parker returns from the kitchen and sits on the arm of Eliot's chair, he quirks an eyebrow at the two. He can't understand why the hitter isn't pushing her away. Hell, he can't understand why Parker chose to sit there in the first place. Usually, his hitter and thief are extremely touch-averse. Having Parker practically sit in Eliot's lap strikes a strange observation, which gets filed away for further analysis at another time when a clinic isn't about to close its doors permanently.

Eliot says nothing when she invades his space; he doesn't even acknowledge her presence. He is beyond used to it by now. Somewhere in the back of his mind sits the realization that it's different from their normal interactions with the team. It should bug him- this slight change in her behavior. After all, the original point of keeping their relationship a secret was to prevent it being used against either one of them through the course of their criminal careers. Their history was a secret because neither of them trusted the makeshift team constructed by Dubenitch, and in their line of work, the standard is trust no one. Now though, after countless jobs, bonding, and saving each other's asses, he knows the team members wouldn't leak their secret.

Secret Seventeen: it's in that moment he realizes the depth of his trust in each of his team members. He trusts them with her life. She is his most important responsibility, the one thing in his life he has sworn to protect regardless of anything else. In their line of work, that is considered a weakness and is likely to be exploited in a violent and traumatic way. The list of people who want him hurt and/or dead is a long one. Yet, he realizes he would tell Nate and Hardison about the relationship because he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that each man would move heaven and earth to protect her.

Her concentration doesn't break. The noise of her bickering teammates goes in one ear and out the other. She vaguely hears Eliot's complaints about spending time with kids. The charcoal pencil scratches softly against the pages of her sketchbook. Her thumb swipes at a few of the lines, smudging and shading appropriately. As Eliot's whistle swings in a fast circle, she puts the finishing touches on the drawing.

"But one of you two can identify the gunman, right," Eliot asks.

"Oh yeah. Sure, he stopped and let me take a picture of him while I was chasing him," Hardison emphasizes exaggeratedly.

"Ya know what, I've been around little kids all day. I don't need to come home and do all of this crap." Hardison adds his complaints into the pot as well. Parker silently hands Eliot her drawing, effectively halting the boys' pity party without a single word. "Is this the guy?" She hums. "See," the hitter gestures, dropping the pad on the table in front of Hardison. He resists the urge to say something childish about his girlfriend being smarter than his best friend.

"Wow, I didn't know you could do that." The hacker is clearly impressed. Eliot wants to add that he didn't know she could do that either, and after all these years, it's strange to think there's some things about her he doesn't know.

"I thought everyone could do that." She doesn't know how to take a compliment and shrugs as if being able to sketch out a near-perfect drawing based on a ten second glimpse of a man is an inadequate skill. She is actually a little baffled to learn that it's not a common ability. He takes it upon himself to prove to her that she is more than a thief, starting with her recently discovered talent.

There is a mix of confusion and raw excitement on her face when the doors to the art store open, revealing to the thief's greedy eyes to isles and isles of supplies. "Eliot, what are we doing here?"

"Darlin', we're here because you are damn good at drawing and we're going to get you the right tools. When Archie helped you become a thief, you practiced with all high-tech laser grids and safes, right? This is the same idea."

"But everyone can draw," she counters, restraining herself from getting more excited. "I mean I don't need special pencils or anything."

"Parker, you're good at it. You're right; you don't need special anything." His agreement finds her frowning slightly. "Let's try it this way. Remember when we went and got ceramic knife sets?"

"Yeah, at that fun cooking place?"

"Yeah, darlin'." His good-humored laughter bubbles in his chest. "Well, does it make sense why we bought special tools, good tools, for the kitchen?"

"Well, yeah, because you're a chef and you're good at it and to make the best food you need the best stuff."

"Same logic. You're an artist. You're good at it. You need the best tools to make the best art." The grin she shoots him is his definition of perfection. Her eyes shine with happiness as the corners of her lips turn upwards. Before he has a second to enjoy the toothy smile, she skips down through the isles, eagerly throwing supplies into a basket. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, he laughs and follows her merrily around the store.

Secret Eighteen: her absurdities and quirks no longer surprise him. In fact, when it comes to Parker, Eliot embraces the crazy and expects the unexpected. Yet, there are things that still surprise him, particularly facets of her personality he never noticed shaped by her upbringing, which primarily is still unknown, even to him.

Sophie takes over the con, and Parker panics when she realizes they're all switching roles. Eliot grumbles again about the last con Sophie masterminded and how said con ended with their office building exploding. He just knows it's going to suck.

Bright side: he gets to screw around with Parker's gullibility. The hitter knows he shouldn't, but it's just too easy, especially when she sets him up for it. Nate, who resists the temptation to engage in silliness as a general policy, chimes in. "Eliot, these conspiracies aren't real, right?"

"What'd ya mean?" His arms cross in front of his chest and he channels Men-In-Black as he fixes her with a glare. His eyes glaze over the board that has every crackpot conspiracy known to mankind affixed to it.

"Like that one of there that says all the major wars in the past 50 years were ordered by members of the Council?"

"Parker, I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you." He stalks away, not being able to contain his smirk any longer and not wanting the teasing to end just yet.

"Ha, you're not a member of the Council… are you? Eliot! Is he? Uh… Nate, is he?" The thief trails after the men desperately trying to figure out if the conspiracies are real and if her boyfriend is part of a Council. Quite honestly, she wouldn't put it past him in the scheme of things.

Not so bright side: the con takes a weird turn because Monica Hunter refuses to sell the story about underground, secret prisons. Of course, somehow, that translates into Parker getting hit with a car. Obviously, that's the only alternative.

"Are you out of your mind, Sophie? You want me to hit her with a car. Hit her with a vehicle," Eliot whispers heatedly as he stabs the air for emphasis. "You've lost it."

"She's been hit by a car before! Would you rather I hit her with a car?"

"Damnit, Sophie, no. I would rather she didn't get hit by a damn car in the first place."

"You're a hitter. Can't you just hit her in a way that she doesn't get hurt?"

Eliot sighs, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically. "You've lost your dad-gum mind. Never again, Sophie! Never again."

The act of hitting her with a car is bad. The act of leaving her on the ground after hitting with said car is infinitely worse in his book. Later when she walks into the makeshift base, she smiles, knowing Eliot would blame himself for any injury she showed. She actually enjoys this whole switching-roles thing, so it's not that hard to act excited. Eliot leans against the conspiracy boards, and she sidles up next to him, hiding a wince when her bruised shoulder bumps his. He smiles at her sadly, but they're still in the middle of a con and it's not the time to talk.

The gullibility continues as Parker sifts through every conspiracy she has ever heard. Eliot laughs to himself, as he slices bell peppers; Hardison gets in on the joke by telling her the Loch Ness Monster is really a submarine. He adds his two senses about testing. When she stomps away in annoyance, the hacker offers his fist for the semi-traditional fist bump. Eliot rolls his eyes, but knocks his knuckles against Hardison's anyway.

Soreness settles in her muscles when the two finally break away from the team and head home. A random sweatshirt gets tugged over her head in a feeble attempt to camouflage her stiff movements and hide the developing bruises. It's a feeble attempt indeed because the second they're alone and the door of their apartment locks solidly behind them, he demands, "Let me see 'em."

"What?" Her question and tone feign innocence, but he isn't buying it. One eyebrow quirks upwards in disbelief. "Aren't you going to do your little yoga, deep breathing thing?"

"Tryin' to keep me busy, so you can take a shower without me seein' your body?"

"No," she drawls. "I was just wondering. Ya know because…" Her mind comes up blank and can't formulate a plausible excuse. "… because I was gonna go steal stuff."

"Why don't we just skip this whole thing and you just show me everywhere that hurts?"

"Eliot, I'm fine. I mean, a car hit you when Alice had jury duty, and you were fine."

"First of all, you are Alice, remember? Second, a car that was barely moving hit me. Third, I'm trained to get by cars. You're a thief. Your training has nothing to do with getting hit."

"You know, it's okay that you hit me."

"My mama would disagree with ya on that one, Parker."

"Well, I'll tell her it's okay because it was for a con. I needed to get hit so Monica Hunter would believe the story and sell the fear or whatever creepy thing Sophie was talking about."

"You don't get hit, Parker. It's my job, not yours."

"But technically, you're the hitter, so your job is to hit. And you hit me, so you were doing your job. I wouldn't have let anyone else hit me."

"None of that made me feel any better, darlin'."

"Oh." Her fingers fiddle with the hem of the oversized sweatshirt.

"You know what would make me feel better? If you would show me your bruising," he tells her pointedly. His patience is wearing thin, and he needs to assess her injuries for himself. He learned long ago not to trust her perception of her own pain.

"But you'll get all mope-y and grumpy."

"Do not," he counters petulantly.

"Pinky promise you won't and then I'll show you." A large part of him can't believe he sticks out his little finger without a second's hesitation. If anyone would have told him a decade ago that he would be living with a crazy-ass thief who puts more faith in pinky promises than contracts, he would have laughed himself to the bank. Yet here he is, internationally known hitter and retrieval specialist, holding out his pinky like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Secret Nineteen: there are times when her innocence and naivety bleed over and color his world. It's rare, but when it happens, it feels like he's a kid again, before all the bloodshed and blurred lines. He cherishes those moments because he thought he lost that part of his spirit long ago, buried under regrets, mistakes, and followed orders. She doesn't just believe he's a good man; she makes him remember a time when he believed it too.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: This turned out way more angst-y than I originally anticipated. It was one of those things where I was watching the episodes and the angst just came out. Even after rewatching the episodes, I still can't seem to slip this train of thought. I promise I will try to make the next ones lighter if the audience so wishes. As always, please leave ideas or thoughts!

Warning: this portion of the story might contain triggering material.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Parker paces back and forth. 'Stalks' is probably a better word for the action. The glare that is etched on her face is directed at the hitter and the woman sitting across from him in the booth at the bar. Her fingers clench around the lock in her grasp. She briefly wonders if the ex-Mossad woman has reflexes like Eliot because she really wants to throw the metal lock at the woman's head. It wouldn't be nearly as satisfying though if the woman managed to catch the thing.

"What's with the face, mama?"

"Hmm," she coughs, letting the lock clatter to the bar top in front of her. "Oh…why isn't she leaving?"

"Miss Kick-Ass over there has the hots for him, Parker. She'll probably leave when he leaves." If Parker growls under her breath, Hardison doesn't mention it. "Where'd your little thief playmate go?" She shrugs and refocuses her attention on the couple in the corner. "So you buried yourself alive," he prompts, trying to drag her out of her funk and into conversation.

"Yeah, I was scared of the dark. I'm not anymore."

"Strange way to fix that, but uh… more power to ya, I guess. I mean you coulda just grabbed a nightlight." The hacker fiddles with his thumbs as he searches desperately for another conversation topic. "You know your jump on that last job pulled me up to the elevator ceiling by my pants…" She snorts her laughter, but doesn't take the bait. "Okay, well… umm… have a good night, Parker."

"Yeah, bye, Hardison." Her hand waves lamely behind her. Eliot's sleeve is still rolled up, exposing one of his deeper scars. Overhearing a bit of their story telling, she learns that Mikhel Diane is likely the person who gave him that scar, and her blood boils. At one point, Eliot feels Parker's settled gaze on his back and he risks a glance over his shoulder at her. The dangerous look on her face makes him suppress a shudder.

Mikhel says something in Hebrew that catches Eliot's attention. The conversation that follows is entirely in a language the thief can't comprehend, but the way that the woman's eyelashes flutter flirtatiously doesn't bode well for assumptions. Then, suddenly the woman is leaving, checking out the blonde as she passes. The hitter gets up slowly and moves to lean against the counter. "Hey darlin'." She glares at him because she doesn't understand what's happening. Not entirely anyway. She just understands the deep feeling of jealousy burning in her gut. "You want to head home?"

"You're actually going home with me, and not that woman?" The bitter question rolls of her tongue before she can stop it. "She seemed like she would be a good roll in the hay or whatever. Hay does seem to be your thing."

"Parker, don't do this here."

"Fine," she mutters. "I'll meet you there."

"Whoa," he calls out, grabbing onto her elbow to prevent her from leaving. "What do you mean 'meet you there'? We drove together."

"Let go." Immediately, his hand falls to his side. She peels off her converses and pushes them into his chest. Her leather jacket is next until she's in nothing but a tank top and jeans. "I'll meet you there."

"You're not runnin' home in the dark without shoes."

"Watch me. If you don't like it, go play with her and her handcuffs."

"Damnit, Parker," he sighs, letting her go. He walks over to Sophie and Nate to say goodbye.

Secret Twenty: she doesn't particularly enjoy running. Yet when emotions she can't understand swirl in her head and overwhelm her, she runs because her mind is free as her legs pump her faster and further. Eliot knows she doesn't have many ways of coping, so he never runs with her, not wanting to mar a method that actually works for her. It makes him nervous, her running at night by herself, but at the same time, he knows she can handle herself better than most.

Sophie's gone.

During the meeting, Parker shifts on the couch back-and-forth, trying to find a place that's comfortable. Only it's not comfortable at all because they're four when they're supposed to be five. Eliot nudges her to the other end because she's distracting him and things are still a little tense between them. Hardison finally sits down next to her and asks if she's happy. The hitter glares at the hacker for his dumb question. Of course, she isn't happy.

It takes him awhile to pick up on the exact reasoning beside it though. Rather, he knows she's upset because Sophie left, but why it affects her so deeply, he doesn't truly understand at first.

Then he puts two and two together, and it's almost like a sucker punch to his gut. Parker feels abandoned.

It's an emotion that pulls her back into some of her darkest memories. She chides herself for letting her guard down and for starting to rely on the team, on Sophie. She knows this hurt, the clenching pain that makes her want to beg forgiveness for an unknown wrong or do anything really to bring the grifter back, could have been avoided if she followed her instincts to begin with and avoided any and all emotional attachment.

Then Nate decides Parker will play the roper, and she panics. Flat out panics because the last time she had to seduce someone in a bar, she snapped the guy's fingers. She doesn't have her head on straight, doesn't exactly know how this con is going to play out. On top of that, there's a sickening feeling that settles in her gut that reminds her if Sophie can pick up and leave without warning, without any definite timeframe of return, then so can Eliot, Nate, or Hardison. She doubts she could be alone, all alone, again after all this Leverage team stuff. A mental breakdown looms in the distance like an ominous storm cloud.

So when the meeting is over and there's some time to kill before the con actually starts, she slips away, hiding herself away on the roof. It's not high enough, not even close. She wants to feel like she's floating. She wants to be so high up that nothing can touch her. She desperately wants to feel that surge of adrenalin to overpower the feelings she doesn't want to face. She wants to jump and free-fall. For a moment, looking over the edge as her body balances precariously, more in the open space than on the ledge, her brain travels down a familiar dark path, and she wonders what it would be like to fall, really fall, with no wires and no harnesses.

It's not a darkness that rears its ugly head often, but when it does, she finds herself retreating into herself, trying desperately to leash it back before it can cast its looming shadows on her family. In all honesty, she doesn't always realize the darkness has swallowed her whole until she's struggling in its watery depths, until it's too late to predict the people around her from the shadows of darkness.

That's how Eliot finds her. "Parker!" There's an arm around her waist that pulls her back over the ledge, safely onto the roof. Eliot holds her close, his arm tight around her thin frame. "Don't do that to me. Not ever. You don't fall unless I can be there to catch you." His meaning is clear, and his voice sounds frightened. She doesn't ask how he knew about her morbid train of thought, figures it doesn't matter how he knew, only that he did. His hand trembles slightly as it brushes a few strands of blonde hair behind her ear.

"I wasn't," she offers feebly. "I wasn't going to, I don't think. I was just wondering."

"Wondering what?" As strong as he is, he doesn't know if he's strong enough to hear her answer. He sure as hell isn't strong enough to watch the woman he loves splatter on the concrete. An image like that would haunt him his entire life, and he really doesn't need anything else tormenting his days.

"There's something wrong with me." Her response shocks him. It forces him to pause for a moment, as he's not used to hearing his trademark phrase from her. His blues eyes hold unspoken questions, and she continues with a sad sigh. "I was wondering what it would be like to really fall with no wires."

He is no stranger to that dark path. Hell, with the things he has seen and done, his brain takes him along a darkened path more often than not, but there's something about hearing it from her lips, from the lips of the woman who believes in his goodness, that hurts unlike any other pain. "That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you, darlin'. It means you're human. It means you survived whatever horrors brought about that darkness in the first place."

She looks up at him, her blue eyes sad and brimming with unshed tears. "Sophie left." Her voice cracks on the verb and she buries her face in his chest in the hopes of finding some sanctuary or some semblance of peace there in his arms. He knows her well enough to know words won't soothe her, not this time, not yet; so instead, he wraps her in his embrace and starts to sing to her, the melody relaxing her in ways that simple platitudes couldn't.

Secret Twenty-One: she is the only one who has heard him sing. He doesn't tell her that he started singing to her because that's how he was taught to soothe frightened colts. He doesn't tell her that's the reason he started singing in the first place. He doesn't tell her there's a white horse at one of his original safe houses named after her.

Hours later, when she walks down the spiral staircase from Nate's closet, Eliot wonders how the lonely girl crying in his arms morphed into a svelte woman in a skintight, royal blue dress. Nate discreetly clears his throat, and Eliot scrambles to pick his jaw up off the floor. The Rosalind diamond hangs around her neck, showcasing her collarbone and emphasizing her cleavage. _Trust the diamond_, she reminds herself, and that becomes her mantra for the evening, all emotions ignored in favor of trusting implicitly in the diamond.

Nate watches Parker's grift, and his eyes drift over to Eliot, whose jaw clenches rhythmically. He sighs in defeat because he has seen that look before. It's clear as day that his hitter and his thief are in a relationship, and the mastermind lets his mind wander for a moment to wonder if Sophie knows. Nate doesn't know if he's more proud of Parker for not impaling the mark with some piece of cutlery or Eliot for not snapping the mark's hand for being so close to her chest.

Then, of course, because it's not enough that Sophie is gone and Parker is a bit off her game, Hardison oversells the grift. Not only does he oversell the grift itself, but does so by claiming each one of Parker's thefts as his own. With just a look in her direction, Eliot can see that her body is rigid and tense with anger. "You've seen my work in Perth. The Polar Star? Nicked it. The Gem of Gibraltar? Nicked it. The Damiani raid? Distraction while I nicked everything in the vault next door." Parker paces, very lividly paces.

She is still crossly glaring at the hacker when they make it back to Nate's place.

"Ice Man," Eliot questions, already fed up with this con. In his head, he plans a weekend escape to their refurbished farmhouse on the outskirts of town. It's clear that Parker needs the escape, and he wouldn't mind checking on the house. It's a lovely bonus that the bed at the farmhouse is quite possibly the most comfortable mattress in existence. He snaps back to reality when Hardison defends his character.

"Hey, I put a lot of work into that character. No, no. No, I bought new clothes, ugly as hell, too."

"This always happens when you go on the grift, Hardison… You go too big… When you get in too deep on this, I ain't bailin' your ass out."

"I don't need you to bail me out. I'm the Ice Man."

"Not. Gonna. Help." Each word is emphasized strongly as Eliot glowers at Hardison. Parker refuses to look in the hacker's direction. Then, because he still doesn't understand the art of underselling, the 'Ice Man' disappears to go find a ride or something. Eliot sighs in a mixture of defeat and perpetual annoyance and motions Parker upstairs. "Go get changed. We gotta go clear out the lab."

As Parker rummages in the back of his truck in a tight pink dress, Eliot calls Sophie because really, he shouldn't be expected to handle and manage all this crazy without her. "I know. He's driving me crazy. How, huh? I'm backup; they can't rely on me. All right, all right. Hey, thanks… Oh and she nearly threw herself off a roof without a wire; you might want to talk to her and tell her you are planning on comin' back eventually. Don't tell Nate I called." He lies when Parker asks who was on the phone, choosing instead to use the fall back excuse of the cable company. She frowns not remembering any issue with their cable at home, but shrugs it off. Her dress bunches up uncomfortably and it feels like her ass is almost showing. "Stop squirming around. Let's get this over with."

She paces again; it feels like that's all she has been doing during her spare time on this con, but maybe it helps keep her ever-looming emotional breakdown at bay. Her pacing is mechanical: ten steps, turn, ten steps, turn, and repeat. She walks right past him, and he reaches out, throwing her off her pattern and pulling her into his embrace. "Darlin', you gotta breathe. Focus; find your center. You can't do this job if you're this tense."

"It's quick and dirty. You know I don't do quick and dirty. There are too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. It's not how I like to do this."

"I know. Trust me, darlin'. I know. I've worked with you long enough to know exactly how you operate. But Hardison can't do it. There's no way he can crack the safe with all of its heat, motion, and seismic sensors. The Russians will kill him."

"I hate the Russians," she mutters, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You and me both. Let's just get this job over with, okay? We'll get Hardison back and take a few days, just you and me. We can go steal the Hope Diamond or hit up the antiquities floor of the Cairo Museum."

"I need something new. One that he hasn't taken credit for," she adds. Eliot nods because he understands. Her achievements (read: seemingly impossible heists) are the only things she is proud of in this life. Eliot feels a tinge of dislike for the hacker because the man took that away from her, however unknowingly. "I…" Words escape her and she struggles. "Umm… never mind," she decides finally; this isn't the time for emotions to wreck havoc and bubble to the surface. "We need to go."

When Hardison is returned safely to his cyber nest, nursing a bottle of orange soda, Eliot nods his goodbye to Nate before ushering Parker towards his truck. She is pliant to his will, almost disturbingly so. Her eyes stare blankly at the scenery as it blurs past. It's clear she reached the point where avoiding her emotional breakdown transformed into something akin to catatonic compliance, which allows him to get in the apartment to grab Bunny and some clothing without her noticing the car even stopped. He speeds down the road, heading to the outskirts of town and towards one of their numerous safe houses. It's a solid hour before they are parked outside the refurbished farmhouse. "C'mon, sweetheart."

He leads her into the bathroom, stripping off her dust and soot covered clothing, checking her body for injuries as he goes. A few stand out on her pale skin, but nothing that worries him enough to dig up the medical kit. The water is set to warm and his clothes meet hers in the growing pile on the floor. When he slides in behind her, the water is bordering on painfully hot. Her arms cross in front of her chest as she stands in the spray, letting the scalding water rush over her pale skin. At first, he can't discern between her tears and the droplets cascading down her face.

Instead of acknowledging the tears, his lips find her forehead softly as his hand grasps one of the bottles. He pulls her from the spray long enough to lather the shampoo into her hair. Her eyelids flutter closed at the feeling of his fingers massaging her scalp. He takes his time cleaning her, making sure she feels loved and cherished, before his body gets a very militarily efficient wash.

A big, fluffy towel surrounds her, and a matching one hangs from his hips. She follows his lead still, letting him dress her in oversized sweats and a t-shirt, before gently combing out the tangles in her hair. Bunny cuddles in her arms, and Eliot's chest presses firmly to her back, holding her in his lap. "Hungry," he asks softly because he really cannot remember the last time they ate.

"No, but uh… Earlier, I know I said I wasn't, and I don't think I was. I just… I think sometimes those thoughts swallow me whole and I don't know which way is up. It hasn't happened in a long time."

"You've wanted to jump before?"

"I always want to jump." He forgets every now and again that, for her, there is a clear difference between jumping and falling.

"You've wanted to fall before," he amends. His arms subconsciously tighten around her, cradling her closer.

"I… Yeah… Maybe," she struggles because this is something she never dwelled upon. She isn't exactly sure how to put it in words. "You were right, all along, you know. There's something wrong with me. Because I want to fall," she explains.

"That doesn't mean something's wrong with you, darlin'. It just means…" He pauses, breathing in the scent of her hair for a beat as he formulates the words. "It just means that you know pain. It means you've seen the flip side of the coin, and you survived. That darkness may have left you scarred; occasionally you remember it, but that doesn't mean there's something wrong with you."

"No one else believes that. I told one of my foster mothers about it once. I think I told her I didn't know if I wanted to fly or crash and burn. Then, the social worker came and took me away. I made her mad, I think, so she made me leave." He doesn't know what to say to that, couldn't find the words if he tried. "Do you think maybe Sophie knew I wanted to fall sometimes?"

"I think she knows that you have feelings you don't know how to explain, and I know she didn't leave because of something you did or something you felt. She left because she needs a break. She left because she needs some time to sort through some things on her own."

"Oh, okay." Her tone says she doesn't believe him just yet. Honestly, he didn't expect her to take his word for it, especially not when she has two decades of past experiences to prove him wrong in this instance.

"You don't think so?"

"I think maybe she knows I didn't go running. I think maybe she knows what I did do and that maybe she finally realized I'm not worth it. Maybe she got mad because I can't be normal, and instead of making me leave, she left." His attention is on alert at her words. The need to protect her, comfort her, sits up and takes note. He doesn't know where to start pulling that response apart. He shifts her in his lap until they're eye-to-eye.

"Running when?"

"After the bar a few days ago."

"The job with the other crew?" She nods. "If you didn't go running, what did you do?"

"Another coping mechanism, I guess." Her vague answer worries him to no end. His heart hurts, and he just can't take all of this in one day.

"What do you mean, Parker? Did you steal somethin'? Jump off of somethin'? What'd you do?" His pitch jumps a few keys, and his voice sounds exceptionally high. The questions roll off of his lips in a fast flurry. His wary anxiety is obvious.

"I don't think it's anything bad. I mean it's a trick I learned from a foster sister a long time ago. When she was sad or lonely, she would draw lines on her skin. She taught me how. I don't do it a lot because Archie used to get mad at me if he saw them because I would put the harness on weird to avoid hitting the lines. The other day, I sort of went running; it didn't work though, so I tried the other way. Sophie usually grifts, so I don't have to wear certain clothes, which means it doesn't really matter where I draw my lines. If I need to, I just draw my lines where I already have scrapes or bruises. Then it's easier to explain. Archie didn't get mad if I could explain that the lines were something else. I never really got why he didn't like the truth."

His teeth worry his bottom lip. "Parker, what do you mean 'draw lines'? With what," he asks, even though he has a sinking feeling he already knows exactly what she's talking about. He desperately wants to pretend that she isn't saying what she's saying because he doesn't want to be the one who drove her to such coping measures. "What did she teach you? How old were you? Let me see 'em." His questions form like spitfire and tumble from his lips before he can sensor them. Nervousness crosses her face and holds steady in her features. Her shoulders curl in, as she starts to shrink into herself.

He backtracks almost immediately, afraid the anxiety written across his features will give her further reason to bottle her emotions up in the future. "I just need to know, okay, darlin'? I'm not mad. I just need to know," he repeats for lack of something better to say.

"She drew them for me at first. She taught me how, vertical lines versus horizontal lines, where to put them, and how to cover them up. She also taught me how to cover up bruises, so teachers didn't ask questions. I was 10, I think. Maybe younger? She was at one of my last houses before I ran away for good and Archie found me."

"Show me."

"How to draw them," she asks, confused.

"No, no. Show me the one's you made when you went running."

"Why?"

"Because I need to see them."

"But they're okay. I know how to take care of them. She taught me about that too."

"Parker, just… please... show me." Her sweatpants shift to expose her right hip; an area he thought was just marred by falling through the floor into a tunnel after a C4 explosion. Though as he looks closely, his fingertips gently tracing the area, he feels the lines drawn- very shallow, straight cuts crisscrossing over her hip. "Damnit, Parker."

"You said you wouldn't be mad." Her hand yanks his away and resituates her clothing. Simultaneously, her position changes until she's no longer on his lap. Somehow, in the time it takes him to mutter his trademark curse, she is on the far edge of the bed away from him, looking apprehensive and somewhat scared.

"I'm… I don't know what I am." His confession does nothing to soothe her expression. His rough hands scrub over his face. "Parker, I'm sorry." Emotions well in his throat and for the first time in a long time, it is a struggle to suppress them. His fingertips press against his closed eyelids until light patterns form and the urge to cry diminishes slightly. When his sight focuses again, he is alone.

"Parker," he calls for her over and over again. The house is quite large, which unfortunately for him, translates into a million places for the thief to hide. Her go-to spots are all empty, and his anxiety builds steadily. He finds her, finally, tucked into a bed in one of the guest bedrooms. Her back is towards the door. He doesn't miss the way her body tenses when he enters. Kneeling on the floor so he's at eye-level, he strokes her blonde hair, gently pulling it back and away from her face. "Why'd you come in here, darlin'?"

"I don't want you to leave like Sophie. People leave when they're mad. That's how it works. I thought if I gave you space, then we could forget I said anything. You wouldn't be mad anymore, and then you wouldn't leave."

"Parker, I'm gonna get mad sometimes. It's bound to happen, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna leave. I promised you a long time ago I wouldn't do that, remember?" Her hair moves slightly as she nods. "And I'm not mad now. I'm concerned. Do you know why I'm concerned?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. I take it back. I don't draw lines. I don't want to fall or fly or anything."

"That's too bad, darlin', because this is one of those things we're gonna have to talk about. It's too damn important to let it go because I can't ever lose you like that. You don't fall unless I can catch you."

"I don't want to fall, so it's fine."

"When you do wanna fall, it's okay so long as you let me know, so I can catch you. Okay?" He waits a beat for her to nod. On second thought, his little finger extends and he wiggles his pinky in her face. "Pinky promise, Parker? You don't fall unless I can catch you." Reluctantly, she latches her joint to his and presses her lips to the side of her finger. "Good. Now, this drawin' lines business. Will you tell me what Archie told you about it when he saw them?"

"I don't draw lines."

"Parker, I'm tryin' to understand. You gotta help me out here, darlin'."

"I usually draw the lines on my hips or my stomach. They're easier to hide there and those spots tend to get injured a lot anyway. Usually the harness has to sit really tight on those areas to keep me stable, so I don't set off the system." He resists the urge to amend her statement, to tell her that the harness is tight to keep her safe when she dangles above thin air. "Well, the harness would rub the lines weird, so I wouldn't put it on as tightly as I should or I would put it on a different way. Archie got mad because I screwed a job when the harness was too loose and I tipped off a laser with my shoe."

"He didn't ask you why you were drawin' lines in the first place?" She shakes her head and includes an awkward shoulder shrug, as she still lies on her side on the guest bed. "Okay," he sighs and, for a moment, really hates this part of the relationship when he has to explain why her thought process is flawed. "Normal people call drawin' lines cutting. It's a way to alleviate stress for some people. The part that makes me concerned is that cutting is like drugs or alcohol. It's a self-inflicted method of emotional suppression. Some people can get addicted to cutting, and if they do, they usually go to a place like Second Act."

"The rehab place where they gave me happy pills?"

"Yeah; does that make sense, darlin'?" His blue eyes study her face as the words evolve into understanding. Her features tense in concentration as she files away another tidbit about normal life and tries to identify her position in accordance to the new information. Sitting back on his heels, he waits, giving her the time she needs to piece everything together; after all, she has twenty years of data and experiences to sift through and reanalyze given the recently acquired knowledge. Finally, she nods. "So no more drawin' lines, okay? If you feel like you need to, talk to me. We'll find you another coping mechanism, even if that means I have to bungee jump off every bridge in the world."

Her lips smirk into a small smile at that thought, since Eliot is a man who loves to have his feet to remain on the nice solid ground. It's unreasonably hard to coordinate one's body enough to fight effectively while simultaneously falling through mid-air. His job is a whole hell of a lot easier without randomly taking flight, wire or not. "Okay," she agrees. "No more lines."

"Good, now for the love of all that is good, can we please go to bed?"

"Our bed here is really comfortable."

"Almost obscenely so." He carries her back into their bedroom, emotional crisis under control. His lips find hers in a chaste, reassuring kiss before his arms drop her unceremoniously onto the bed with a chuckle. The bed seems to swallow them whole as they both sink into the familiar comfort.

Secret Twenty-Two: of all the assumptions he makes about her past, the idea of her cutting or contemplating suicide never crosses his mind. She always tells him that she is as damaged as he is, that she's equally as broken. He never truly believes her, still doesn't, because for all the darkness that frays the edges of her mind with morbid thoughts, he knows he has more. While he wants to help her buffet her darkness, he is afraid to rely on her in the same way in fear that unleashing his own, even in the slightest bit, would somehow taint the happiness she managed to achieve despite her past.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: as I promised, this is fluffier! Well… Most of it is fluff. Thanks to all who reviewed! I appreciate the feedback. Please keep it coming! It makes me write faster – see, two updates in two days! Also, this chapter ends the Season Two installment. My friend still has season three, so the next update probably won't be for another week or so. **PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!**

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

"I bet you're not even a lawyer," Parker hisses with an icy glare. The stun gun in her pocket itches to be used.

"Aw," the new woman coos. "Sophie was right. You are adorable."

"Excuse me," the thief barks.

"Don't…" For a moment, just for a split second, Eliot almost outs their entire relationship. It's on the tip of his tongue as he feels Parker bristle next to him; his gut reaction is to protect her, even against harmful words. With his arms crossed firmly over his chest, his statement is interrupted by the mastermind's acceptance of this new woman into their crew. The fact that this Tara character is Sophie's doing doesn't make it any better.

Hours later, she swings back and forth from the trapeze setup, her knees hooked over the bar. A taser twirls in her hands. He would be surprised at her grace in managing to spin something in perfect circles like a baton twirler while simultaneously hanging upside down, but then again, it's her. "Darlin', where'd ya get that damn thing anyway?"

"Maybe I can use the stun gun on Tara."

"As much as I don't like it, we gotta give her a chance. Sophie sent her."

"Does that make it better?"

"Nope." His reply pops the 'p' as his hair shakes loosely around his face. "No it doesn't. That does mean, though, that there are rules."

"I hate rules." Her petulant whine brings a smile to his face as he chuckles.

"We don't tase teammates. Like we don't tase cops," he starts. It doesn't matter that his occupation revolves solely around hitting people. He only likes to hit people who deserve it; a cop doing his job does not qualify in the deserve-it category.

"Oh, hush. You don't like hitting cops, so I tased him." Her twisted logic sounds almost sweet, except for the whole taking-down-a-police-officer-with-a-stun-gun thing. She smiles brightly at him upside down because even though he shakes his head in mock annoyance, she knows she won this round.

Secret Twenty-Three: he thinks he might be starting to lose his mind because she is starting to make more and more sense. Of course, he doesn't tell her this.

"I'm just saying get him on board. He doesn't know what's good for him, and even if he does, he doesn't do anything about it. He just lets it walk straight out the door and…"

"Like all the way to Europe," Eliot finishes for her.

"Just do it for me, huh? So I don't have to worry about you," Sophie finishes with an exasperated look. She knows her team, her family, has trouble accepting new people. She also knows that if she can get Eliot on board, Parker and Hardison will follow. Thus, the grifter focuses her attention on convincing the hitter… That is until Nate walks in with Tara, and Sophie ends the video chat abruptly.

Then, of course, because nothing ever is a simple grift, Russell Pan is actually a ringleader for the Triad. On a side note, Eliot is mildly impressed that Tara can hold her own in a fight against a nimble Triad member wielding a cleaver like it isn't… well… like it isn't a cleaver. He makes a mental note to tell Sophie that she made a good choice after all.

The mental note gets a bit sidetracked at the prospect of seeing Parker walk the runway. Despite the situation, with Tara being held as collateral and Nate trying to wing a con on an international Chinese gang, he can't help but tease his blonde just a little.

He smirks that dangerous little grin when they realize the only way she's getting behind stage is to be a model. It's one of his fantasies being played out for him. Part of his brain reminds him that he is on a damn job and he can't do anything about said fantasy at the moment regardless. He briefly contemplates stealing whatever she chooses to wear to pass as a model in addition to the files they are supposed to swipe. Parker flips through the clothes on the rack, desperately trying to find some garment that won't obstruct her movement too much.

"No. No. No!" Eliot sighs, frustration building, because the show starts in less than three minutes.

"How about this?"

"It's a shirt, Parker." Even as he says it, he imagines ripping it off of her, and damn, he needs to get his testosterone under control because they are in the middle of a con. It's not his fault that he has always had a thing for models, right? He's a red-blooded male, and his girlfriend is about to put on some ridiculously short something or other and prance up and down a runway exuding confidence. Parts of his body want to perk up and pay attention, and it's a struggle, a serious struggle, to tamp down the urge.

"I know, but at least you can move in it. The clothes are totally impractical. OK? There's no range of motion, limited concealment options, and this reflective material would set off a motion detector a mile away."

"It's a fashion show. It's not Thieves-R-Us."

"Fine," she grumbles. "How about this?"

"The A-line drape of the empire waist is nice, but the neckline's a little weak if you ask me…" Parker balks at him and wonders why Sophie has been giving her fashion advice all these years, when clearly the man she lives with knows more than enough. "What! I dated a lot of models. Lot of private fashion shows, if you know what I mean."

"Yes. Yes." Her answers are clipped because why would she want to think about her boyfriend rolling around with some drop-dead gorgeous model?

"Though most of the dresses ended up on the ground," he chuckles when her jaw clenches.

"Yep, I get it. You're a guy."

"Means they were naked." His extra emphasis on that last part pushes her a smidgen too far and she snaps at him before walking away. It's an act that lifts the corners of his lips skyward in a smirk. He knows he probably shouldn't tease her during an actual con, but it's not like she's breaking into a complicated vault or anything. His rationalization lets him enjoy her irritation, as he knows it will turn into something delightfully sinful.

Secret Twenty-Four: apparently Eliot has dated a lot of models. That's news to Parker, but in retrospect, it isn't all that unexpected. He clarifies that dating never meant dating in the dinner-and-a-movie sense, but rather the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am version. Now, their sex life isn't vanilla in the least bit, but after being together so many years, it surprises her that there are fantasies that he hasn't shared. She makes it a personal goal to figure out just what makes him want to jump her bones.

"Look, man. It is 9 pm on a Friday night. All the banks are closed." Hardison says as he pulls another stack of books off the bookshelves. He bites his tongue and manages not to add that pulling this wire job in less than two hours when the usual time frame is three weeks is absolutely crazy, completely bat-crap crazy. The hacker manages to keep that little tidbit to himself, but only because all four of them have been sounding like broken records in a feeble attempt to get Nate to see reason.

"ATMS," Parker offers.

"Daily withdrawal limits. If y'all want me to do an electronic wire transfer of 100 grand between the Caymans and Madagascar, I can do that. If you're talking cash, you're out of luck. I'm sorry. Welcome to the future."

"Just use your little slimmer thing, man, and gank the ATMs." Eliot tries to sound tech-y, at least makes an attempt to pretend that he listens to Hardison when the geek goes on and on about this gadget or that doo-dad. Lets face it though, Eliot knows about as much about technology as Hardison knows about weapons, aka zilch.

"It's called a skimmer, but thank you for trying. And, no, I don't have that thing anymore. We're the good guys now. I haven't used that thing in months."

"Months," Parker asks because she can do the math. Hell, she's good at math, and she is positive they've been the good guys for a lot longer than a few months.

"We've been the good guys longer than that." Eliot voices Parker's inner logic without even knowing it. It makes her smile a little more than it should.

Through the comm link, Nate demands focus. Not that the three of them are particularly good at listening to the mastermind, especially not when the bickering gets started, but they all like to think that he's used to acting as the makeshift father for the ragtag team.

"Emergency fund," Hardison states because maybe he is just good enough to magically conjure up thousands of dollars in cash. At that, all three of them scramble. Eliot flips over a random piece of furniture, whipping a knife out of God-only-knows-where. Parker dumps out all her cereal boxes, not even concerned about the mess of sugary puffs scattered about the kitchen, while Hardison fights with the mockery that is the portrait of Old Nate. They come up with nine grand with which to play the mark.

Even as Eliot moves to take care of the muscle, he doesn't know how Nate is going to be able to pull this job off, so instead, he focuses on his role. "You remind me of my sister… Hmm, yeah, it's all in the wrist." He forgets how much fun it is to play darts, even if it's in the middle of the con. It helps that the Irish bodyguards are impressed because, hell, he's impressive. He knows it. He's a confident man…confident enough, apparently, to smack Parker's ass as she delivers their beers. There's satisfaction in knowing that if any other man touched her like that, she would whoop his ass. "There ya go, right? Feisty little thing," he exclaims, throwing another dart blindly at the board, not at all surprised when it hits dead center.

Then, of course, it isn't nearly enough that this con is impossible to pull off in two hours and the clock is ticking. Nate knocks back a drink, his first in way too long, at the mark's insistence. It's key to the con, he rationalizes, even as he hears his team's grumbles. Eliot looks remarkably disappointed; starting the deadly cycle yet again, Nate takes another drink because they've still got a job to do.

"What's Nate thinking," Parker asks when she sidles up next to Eliot.

"He's not."

"Nate, you've got ten seconds," Hardison shouts in his ears. "Place the damn bet!"

"Don't be cocky," Tara chides. With the bet placed and the marker for the bar in Nate's possession, the hacker lets out a loud, resounding whoop. Eliot barely resists the urge to clap a hand over his ear at the sudden noise. "I didn't realize you were quite into basketball."

"Ba-basketball? Woman, we just pulled off the wire in the time it takes to get a pizza delivered. This is a big win. Big. They're gonna talk about this one."

It might be a big win; that's true, but Nate won't let it go. Their drunken mastermind is calling the shots. The plan is outrageous, absolutely so. He wants to gamble with the loan shark's money.

"Just tell me somethin'," Eliot insists before he and Parker rush off to steal from the Irish mob. "Let me ask you one more question. Would you even consider trying this if you were sober?"

Secret Twenty-Five: it's not verbalized; it doesn't have to be. Eliot and Parker don't know what they're going to do if this drinking habit turns into the downward spiral that it was months ago. Eliot isn't sure the mastermind will survive it with Sophie continents away, and Parker doesn't know if the family will endure in one piece. Either way, they share a feeling that things just might get ugly.

"Eliot, I'm gonna ask you not to do anything violent." Nate states slowly, enunciating each word clearly. The hitter's back is towards the door, so he is unaware of the man who just walked in, prompting Nate's speech.

"What? What are you talkin' about? I only use violence as a- as a- as an appropriate response." He truly doesn't understand what Nate is talking about. The mastermind knows better than most on the team just what Eliot is capable of and the moral lines he has drawn to prevent him from falling all the way down into cold-blooded-killer territory.

"Hello Nate," Sterling greets smugly. Apparently, that qualifies, and within the span of a breath, Eliot is on the insurance man, throwing him on a table. A list of grievances flips like a slideshow through his mind, empowering the hitter and proving that it really is an appropriate response.

Basically, Eliot hates Sterling almost as much as he hates Dubenitch. Parker hates the British insurance agent too for very similar reasons and can't wipe the smile off her face. Hardison subtly pays off the bartender not to call the cops at the ruckus created by the hitter's particular display of violence.

Secret Twenty-Six: she knows just how much Eliot is enjoying pounding his fists into the other man. That's not to say Eliot loves the violence. He embraces it, controls it, as part of his persona because that's his training. Getting to utilize said training on someone who truly deserves it (read: Sterling), now that is an act Eliot doesn't feel guilty finding pleasure in.

This job, with this damn supposed-psychic, churns up everything she has kept so well hidden, even from him. Hell, it even manages to bring to light some of his secrets. It's different though for her. What he shares is with her, his girlfriend, a woman who he explicitly trusts. Her secrets get laid to rest on TV in front of room full of strangers.

"What's wrong," Nate inquires, leaning over to whisper into her ear, as they sit in the audience and wait for Rand's show to start.

"I just don't like psychics, OK? They freak me out." Eliot agrees; he doesn't say anything, but he is with her 100% on that front. He finds it strange when Sophie can pick up details in tells he swears he doesn't have, but to have a stranger do it is a much deeper level of emotional invasion. The fidgeting draws the fake psychic's attention. Eliot growls a warning to the man on stage regardless of the fact that Rand can't actually hear said noise to be intimidated into compliance.

"I think I'm getting an energy right now. It's definitely family. Is it your father? No. No, it's a sibling. Brother… You were both very young. It was an accident. I see a road. I see a car, but your brother's not in the car. He's in the street." Parker looks like she's about to cry, and Eliot resists every urge in his body to snap the man in half and haul his girl into his arms. "Wheels… I see wheels. A skateboard? No, a bicycle. Was he riding a bicycle when he was struck? He's been gone a long time from you now… He's sorry that he had to leave you. He knows that you feel responsible, but he wants you to know it was an accident. You taught him to ride that bike, didn't you?"

She's gone before he can blink. Eliot tries to catch her when she runs out of the studio. Actually, he does catch her. In her panicked state, Parker plows into him in her desperate need to escape, but just as quickly as she collided with him, she is gone again.

They find her, thankfully, on the floor of Nate's apartment. Her face is red from emotional exertion, and her cheeks display clear evidence of tear tracks. Eliot agrees with Hardison more than ever; that damn psychic should be shot. Whatever con Rand is pulling on the clients, that is bad, but no one makes his thief cry. It's just not okay.

After explaining the cold reading, Tara poses the question they're all thinking. "So what do we do now?"

"Cut off his arms. And his head. Yeah. I wanna kill him. Can we make that happen?"

The words are out of his mouth before his brain catches up. As they fall from his lips, the words shock him; they shock her too. He hates killing people. He would worry about his soul if he didn't, but still, he made a promise he wouldn't kill anymore, not unless it was absolutely necessary. The protective instincts that are at the very core of his character clearly do not have that moral promise in mind, especially not when the woman he loves looks like emotional road kill.

Secret Twenty-Seven: Parker had a brother. That was her secret pulled from the darkest depths of her past, put on display for the world. What he doesn't know, what no one knows, is that Bunny, her poor tattered stuffed animal, is the only thing she has left of her little brother. No photos exist. Very few memories survived. The stuffed animal is the one thing that keeps her grounded despite past years of loneliness and constant traveling. She doubts she'll ever share that specific secret. It's too close to home. That secret is her home. Well it was. It was the closest thing she had to a home for as long as she can remember. Eliot, she thinks, he may be her home now. That's a secret she might share with him one day.

Secret Twenty-Eight: evidently he will still kill. Not for a price, never again for a price. But for her, he would move heaven and earth for her. That he already knew. He didn't realize though how many of his own morals, his own rules, he would break to keep her safe. He told her once about the promise he made to himself to never kill again, unless the situation left him no other option. Her surprise matches his at the offer. This secret is one he was even keeping from himself.

"Steal his team," Tara asks. "I don't think I even know what that means."

"It's not as bad as the time he wanted us to steal a kid or a mountain," Parker tells her as she looks out to survey the green baseball field.

"How are those even remotely similar?" The grifter looks between the team, trying to figure out at least some of the reasoning behind Parker's logic. Hardison just shrugs.

He watches the commercial on repeat for a good twenty minutes. It's pretty damn cool and looks legit, but he would never tell Hardison. The hacker does not need a more inflated ego. "So what language is that? Japanese?" He hums his response, pausing the video to locate her. Her legs dangle between the gaps in the spiral stair rail. "You know Japanese?" He hums again. "Cool. Didn't know that."

"Ya pick up a few things when you're an international hitter. I'm good with languages."

"But you're not good a baseball?"

His brow furrows in confusion for a second as he tries to find the relationship between languages and sports. "I said I didn't like it."

"Why?"

"Defense can't score. The players are just running in circles."

"Circles are better than lines."

This time he can't help it. "What," he asks, completely bewildered. Usually, he can follow her logic… Well, he can typically piece together bits of Parker reasoning and understand vaguely how she leapt from Point A to Point B. Now, though, he's just at a loss.

"Football players run in lines. Soccer players run in lines. Basketball players run in lines. Circles are better than lines." He has no rebuttal to that because if there is one thing he has learned over the years, it's the need to pick your battles. He'll fight her tooth-and-nail about why she needs to eat vegetables, but explaining why football isn't running in a line… that's just not an argument he will ever win. "So how are we supposed to do the con if you can't play baseball? Oh, do you have to wear the pants?"

"What," he asks again.

"The baseball uniform? Do you have to wear it?"

"Yeah, Parker, I'm on the team. I've gotta wear the uniform." The mischievous glint dancing in her eyes prompts him forward. Her teeth bite her bottom lip as her eyes blatantly check him out. "You like the uniform, darlin'?" She nods, a few strands of her blonde hair falling to cover her eyes. His fingers reach up to tuck the locks safely behind one of her ears before his hand slides into her hair, cupping the back of her head. The kiss, by all means, should be awkward since they're making out through an opening in the handrail for the spiral staircase, except it's not. They're too familiar with each other's bodies for a kiss to be strange, regardless of the location.

"Do you have the uniform with you," she whispers breathlessly against his lips.

"As much as I love your train of thought, darlin', we're not havin' sex in Nate's apartment." At least he valiantly attempts to convince her they're not going to do that… He fights a losing battle, almost like the circles-and-lines argument, when she drags him into the downstairs bathroom and locks the door.

Secret Twenty-Nine: it's not that she dated a lot of baseball players because lets face it; Parker doesn't do relationships with people… or she didn't used to do relationships with people. Her fantasy revolves pretty much around Eliot in any form of a uniform, but sports uniforms seem to tickle her fancy more than anything else. Though as she pulls his sweatshirt over his head, she makes a mental note to find a cop's uniform too.

After being ushered onto the helicopter, she decides it sucks, everything about the current situation absolutely, fucking, sucks. Eliot glares out the window as they take off. The tension rolls off of him in waves. She wants to tuck herself under his arm, bury her face in his clothes, and just breathe in a scent that reminds her of home, happiness, and safety. The thing is while Sophie knows about their relationship, Hardison still doesn't. The hacker is her best friend, and he doesn't deserve to find out about their secret relationship on the same day Nate goes to jail and Sophie reappears seemingly out of thin air. It's a lot to digest in a day; she knows. She is sifting through all those emotions herself.

Everyone is wrapped in his or her own world, so really, no one notices when she shifts a few inches over, just slightly moving into the hitter's personal space. Well, Eliot notices and spares her a glance and a sad smile before turning back to the window. She thinks, for now, that's okay.

No one is quite in the mood to socialize when they land, and everyone temporarily goes their separate ways. When Eliot and Parker finally, _**finally**_, make it home, it's hard to prioritize. The left side of face is swollen. His clothing is stained with blood. She can't remember the last time she slept, and she desperately wants to shower. The deep grumbling in his stomach also reminds him that they both need some form of nourishment in the near future. Yet, he's too tired to figure out in what order any of that needs to be accomplished because he has his sights set onto falling into his bed, wrapping her in his arms, and sleeping for the next unspecified number of hours.

Parker has another idea because she stumbles into the kitchen. He expects to see her grab for the cereal boxes lined neatly along the edge of the counter, but instead, she reaches into the freezer for a few ice packs.

"Sit." Exhaustion laces her words, but her tone doesn't leave room for argument. Slumping against the barstool, he watches her collect washcloths, paper towels, and a med kit. She stands between his legs and gently, tenderly, uses warm water to clean away the blood marring his face and neck. A gash across his left eyebrow still oozes, and another laceration on his forehead requires a butterfly suture. Other than that, his nose is a little sore, and his body will bear a few bruises. Silently, she wraps two ice packs in paper towels before pressing them gingerly to his forehead and cheek.

"Stay." Again, her command leaves no tone for argument. After a squirt of hand sanitizer, she goes about making him a sandwich. It's nothing like his usual herb aioli masterpieces, but it's food and it'll do. They eat silently, too tired for conversation and not really knowing what words to say anyway. The occasional crunch of cereal fills the comfortable void. The dishes are forgotten in the sink because she can barely keep her eyes open to locate the dishwasher.

It's his turn to take over, ushering her to the bathroom. She grumbles at the thought of having to remain standing for even another moment; OCD-necessity for cleanliness be damned. "C'mon, darlin'. You know you don't want to get in bed without washin' up. You'll sleep better, and we both need the sleep."

"No more 90 minutes for you," she asks through a yawn.

"Yeah, darlin', I'm gonna need more than 90 minutes tonight."

"Good." The sound of rushing water drowns out her mumble.

"Hmm, and why is that?" His goal is to keep her talking, so she doesn't actually fall asleep in the shower. Given the way her eyelids flutter and fight to stay open, it's a serious possibility.

"Cause I get to wake up with you. It's my favorite part."

Secret Thirty: maybe it's the exhaustion talking or maybe it's the over emotional day, but she can't help but tell him how right it feels waking up in the morning next to him. She is a night owl by trade. She much prefers blending into the dark; she is a thief, after all. Despite her predilection for the night, her favorite moments are, and have always been, the mornings. Now that she has someone to share those sunrises with, she experiences a certain level of peace that always eluded her in the past. She thinks maybe, just maybe, it's a sign that everything will be okay.


End file.
